


The Devil's Own

by halciian



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Angst, Chapters are not in chronological order, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fire Emblem Fates: Birthright Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, this entire series is basically a love letter to voltaire, titles are based on lyrics by aurelio voltaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-03-17 00:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halciian/pseuds/halciian
Summary: Father is dead. Marx is dead. Elise is dead. Camilla is gone. Odin is gone. Kamui is never coming back.But he is king now, and kings are not entitled to their own misery.Or, a collection of writings based on Leon’s character following the events of Birthright.





	1. Made in your image, we are, at least, as twisted and mean as thee.

**Author's Note:**

> Leon thinks madness runs in the family.
> 
> Unbeta'd.
> 
> EDIT: I cleaned up the first two chapters after figuring out how to format on AO3. Also went back and fixed some mistakes that were bugging me.

When Leon thinks of the dead king, his own flesh and blood, a man with a penchant for death and all things that made this country sick and morbid, he can’t help but pay attention to the gnawing unease in his mind. For Nohr was cursed. The very throne he sat on, as far as he was concerned, drove his father to madness.

And, someday, that very same madness would eat at his own mind.

“If it ever came to that,” Leon says one night in the presence of the only reminder of a softer time, “you have my permission to stop me by whatever means necessary.”

The implications of his request are not unbeknownst to Zero, if his sour expression is anything to go by. Hardly did his retainer welcome the discussion of Leon’s more morbid remarks. Still, Zero bore into his eyes – his soul, more like, searching for something, anything. “And if I were to refuse?” The hand entwined with his tightens, and Leon feels something strange stirring in his chest as Zero brings himself closer and murmurs treacherous words. “If I didn’t stop you? If you sent this whole world to ruin?”

For a moment, Leon’s old self had shines through his shadow state. “Though I will be the first to admit my power is second to none, I would hardly be able to bring about the end of the world.”

“Then the end of Hoshido?”

Perhaps it is the innocence with which Zero makes that inquiry, but it leaves Leon rigid and wide-eyed, staring at his unfaltering form with some form of indignation at such an absurd claim.

But it isn't absurd, and perhaps that explained the sudden mix of emotions that makes a storm in Leon’s heart. His mind, once so rational, able to recognize every single thought and, dare he admit it – every single fault that made him so much more inferior to the ones who had long since bid their goodbyes – it frightened him just how far his perception had warped into something he no longer recognized. He supposed, if he had to place such woes in a far more eloquent way, as Marx would have done, Leon would say he no longer recognized himself.

Because Zero’s inquiry is not quite as asinine as the young king had made it out to be. Rather, Leon had forced himself to take some sort of offense for the sake of his kingdom’s benefactors. The country bathed in light and self-imposed goodness and all those things that made him want to retch.

What a sham, that land. He could not help but grow to despise the place that had simultaneously destroyed and saved his home.

And how delightful it would have been - _could be,_ he corrected himself - if Leon ever raised his hand against Hoshido. A final act of defiance against those deemed far too pure to revel with scum. A nonexistent army at his command as he placed _Kamui’s_ family through the very same pain and heartache and despair he felt whenever he visited Marx and Elise’s tomb. Whenever Camilla gazed at him with that deadened look in her eyes. Whenever he donned his father’s garments and felt the heavy weight of the crown slam against his head-

He hardly noticed he had ground his teeth in when Zero brings his head against his chest. It isn't soft or loving, even though his quickened heartbeat says otherwise. Rather, it speaks of some intangible fear that perhaps the young king is too far gone.

Leon wanted to reassure him, whisper sentiments that could set anyone’s mind at ease like Camilla. Cure his worry with a simple touch like Elise. Hope for a brighter future like Marx.

Instead, he lay lifeless against Zero’s form.

 

* * *

 

Zero had offered his own form of apology once Leon composed himself. He dismisses himself shortly afterwards, a flirtatious yet undoubtedly tired smile marring his lips as he kisses Leon goodnight. Retainers, even if some of them had more than inappropriate relationships with their charges, were not exempt from guard duty. And so he lay alone, hoping to obtain at least a few hours of restless sleep before the early hours of the morning arrived. He couldn’t, and books offered no reprieve from the heavy weight in his mind.

When he thought of his siblings, when he thought of himself – and he’d rather not admit such a terrible thing – he can’t help but draw to the conclusion that the dead king was truly their own flesh and blood. That penchant for death and all things dark had long since extended to his children. Leon was simply too blind to see. Or, no, he had rather turned a blind eye to any things that shattered the illusion of having a more noble and pristine family. But it was there, in the back of his head.

When he would search for Marx and find him agonizing over a table of snapped quills and crumpled parchment. Very often would he see him in such a state, but it was not until Kamui had abandoned them that he witnessed Marx all but claw at the palms of his hands as they curled into fists. And then, whenever he rode into battle, even though Leon had some vague idea as to just how much turmoil the concept of war caused within the high-prince, Leon could not help but notice his lack of empathy to those who dare raise a hand against Nohr.

When he would look for Camilla, only to see her inspecting the steel of her axe in such glorious admiration – as if it were a holy relic that would offer some deliverance. Perhaps it was, if the way she used it to bring the battlefield to her knees was anything to go by. Innate savagery was not unbeknownst to any of them, and perhaps that applied to his dear sister the most.

When he would be subjected to Elise’s sudden bursts of affection in a small patch of flowers, far away from the dark walls of castle Krakenburg. He would entertain her when given the time, watching as she weaved crowns made of petals and stems and the rest of whatever greener provided to her by the land until there was none left. And then, when she plucked the last bit of color from their barren country she danced in innocent mirth. Elise surely had a penchant for destruction, but that was hardly because she was cruel. Rather, that playful attitude of hers could get her in far more trouble than what might have been considered necessary.

When he gazed at himself in the mirror... Well, he had been told by many that he was wicked and unrelenting when given the task to punish those he deemed unworthy. There was not much need to expound any further.

But now, when Leon was left alone to wallow in thoughts of unease and doubt and every other emotion that made him weary all on his lonesome, he realized that they were all truly descendants of the mad king. And so he came to the conclusion that the Nohrian royal family had a penchant for insanity. Rather, perhaps the throne itself brought about madness. It would have explained his father’s deteriorated state, and it would certainly offer a reason as to why such bitter emotions regarding the world and Hoshido and _Kamui_ had been running rampant in Leon’s mind.

But such ramblings frightened him. Those subconscious thoughts of destruction and revenge and all of those horrid thoughts which surely crossed the mind of the late king and were now crossing his own terrified him. Surely he did not truly wish such horrible things on Hoshido. He did not want to begin that dreadful war anew. He did not want to be like his father. He did not want to descend into that all-consuming madness. Leon was above such things. As he told himself those small comforts, he turned to lay on his side in the bed that was far too large for him and closed his eyes.

He did not want to believe that Marx would have followed the same path as their father. He did not want to believe that Camilla would have ravaged the land for a single entity. He did not want to believe that Elise, in her naïvety and desire to do good, would have brought on some great tragedy.

They were good.

He was good. Madness be damned.


	2. Get that damn thing off his neck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leon is cruel, unsure, and, most of all, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> EDIT: Just like the previous chapter, this has been cleaned up as well. I should also mention that in this series, Kamui is gender neutral and goes by they/them pronouns.

The king’s court was all but irreparable.

Long did Leon witness the nobility of Nohr within these walls plot the demise of the very ladies and dukes they associated with. Such displays of treachery no longer surprised him, but a lack of shock hardly eased any feelings of disgust he harbored for them. When he watched them dance and drink the nights away during the few social gatherings his father permitted, he would at times grow so sick that he had to retreat to the royal gardens.

How Marx dealt with such repulsive displays of human wickedness, Leon did not know. The crown prince always appeared so non-fussed by the demons and harpies that basked in whatever attention he spared them. His countenance never expressed joy nor contempt as he dined with them in his father’s stead, yet Leon could see the ever so subtle twitches of his brow - how his frame remained taught, like thread caught in an unforgiving knot as the nobility pulled and pulled and pulled.

And then, if Leon truly focused, he would catch his brother steal a glance to some forgotten corner of the ballroom, where his retainer stood with a peculiar expression on his face as a lady dared to caress the prince’s sleeve.

He knew his brother. Lost in his shadow though he was, they were close. Marx often spoke of his detest for them in the quiet confines of his study as the crown sat so innocuously on his vanity. When he became king, Marx would jest, the dismissal of their services would leave them dazed.

But Leon was king now. How he hated to call himself the ruler of Nohr, yet no sooner would he deny the right to that precious thing called freedom to his dear sister.

It had been just several weeks following his own coronation, and it left him wallowing in something akin to despair. A gathering of nobility, both from his own country and the kingdom of Hoshido. It made him ill to see them there – to see _Kamui_ there, accompanied by their family and people they could trust.

It enraged him.

It sickened him.

Most of all, it gave him heartache.

But that was neither here nor there, and Leon was forced to sift through the rubble left in their wake, and part of that rubble just so happened to be the remnants of his father’s council.

How they bragged about their noble births – the pure blood which pulsed through their veins. “Commoners are filthy,” a particularly nasty one had told him as Leon dismissed them for the evening. Gaddos, he believed was his name, “It would be wise to refrain from giving them too much luxury, lest they grow spoiled and forget their rightful place.” As much as he despised the men who served as his advisors, an overabundance of elitism was not enough to warrant the dismissal of their posts.

Treason, however, was punishable by death.

Whispers became rumors, and rumors were found to be true by Zero. His retainer had brought back tellings of secret dealings and bribes and so many other things that no longer fazed him. It made Leon feel strange, reading letters to his would be assassins which catalogued his own demise. Zero seemed proud of his handiwork, peering over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. If Leon didn’t know any better, he would have thought he heard a low purr sound in the back of his throat.

The members of Leon’s council were destined to die at his hands following that farce of a coronation. Their connections to rebellions that sought to bring back someone like his father to the throne were too close to his liking. Leon had simply been lacking any true evidence to bring such a case to the table. This, however, was more than enough.

And so he grinned, the first smile that had truly crossed his face since he was crowned king of this miserable country.

 

* * *

 

Executions were conducted in the throne room. There was little ceremony, few to bear witness, and even less of a mess on the floor as Brynhildr made quick work. That latter point, he must enunciate, held far more importance when he was expelling his father’s council. He did not want vile blood ruining the ornate rugs Marx had taken a liking to all those years ago.

One by one, over the course of several days did those caricatures meet their demises. Some of them had kneeled before him, groveling at his feet as he rested his head against an armor clad hand. Rarely did he leave the perch of his throne, delivering retribution to those who had enabled and allowed his father to tear their family apart with a mere flick of his wrist, familiar magic weaving between his fingers as the weight of his tome lay heavy against his legs. Others had entered insanity as they cursed Leon’s name and every other horrible, weak thing he stood for.

He didn’t place much thought into it. If anything, Zero had taken far more offense on his behalf. Though he never acted on whatever feelings he might have held, Leon could perceive the tightening of Zero’s jaw, fingers tapping impatiently against the hilts of daggers and knives beneath his cloak.

His final advisor was enough to break that impassive facade. A stout man, one his father neither cared for nor detested.

“I should have had you killed sooner.”

“Indeed, Gaddos. A king’s coronation night is by far the most opportune time to-”

“Far sooner, boy,” Gaddos spits, and Leon’s hand twitches against his tome when he sees his gaze drift toward his retainer. “When word reached that you spared the life of that”—he stops, disgust seeping into the lines of age on his face— “that common dog... That’s when.”

Zero grins.

Leon knows that smile all too well. It marred his features far more as of late, and though such wickedness was hardly directed at him, it made his skin crawl nonetheless. But beneath that desire to do evil lies an uncommon edge. Rather, the stillness with which he gazes at his fallen advisor is all but within the realm of uncanniness.

Or, and this is most likely the reason, for Zero had a rather protective streak that was not unbeknownst to Leon, perhaps he is made frozen by some thinly-veiled fury.

“How easy it could have been,” Gaddos declares, and Leon decides then that he would refrain from intervening in whatever cruelties that followed, “to bribe you with the lint in my pockets and have you lace your lord’s tea with Hemlock. I bet, if I were to live beyond this day, I could ask you to do just that and you would agree without any hesitation.”

“Are you sure you’re willing to wager on that?”

“Such insolence is beneath me, thief.”

At that, Zero’s grin grows wider, marring his features as he steps toward his cornered prey. It is not until he is all but towering over him that he stops. “If you’re wrong, I’ll take those nice pearls around your neck.”

It's quite shocking, the amount of indignation and pride this man has, Leon thought, as Gaddos meets his intimidation with crossed arms, “Clearly your master hasn’t trained you to be silent when—”

“I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve lost this bet,” and the hand at Zero’s side rises to Gaddos’s neck, around the coils of priceless metals. Leon can see his advisor put up a fight, futile as it is, and given the grunts and sounds of retching as Zero pulls and pulls at the threads he’d say he was bidding his time in having them dig into the back of his neck. Gems make their home on the carpeted floor, their falls cemented by the dull thuds at his feet. Oh, but the vile assassin would rather not be touched any longer by someone as repulsive as him, and so Zero sidesteps as soon as the advisor makes to push him back, a string of pearls glistening in his hands.

Gaddos drops to his knees to grasp at the pieces of luxury scattered across his floor, coughing out his lungs. “You... you filth!”

“I’m not the one on the floor,” Zero offers easily, peering at the jewelry with feigned childlike wonder. “Though I will say, you look much better groveling at my feet. Tell me, milord,” he offered a knowing glance toward Leon, “what’s a dog to a dog?”

“Vermin, perhaps,” Leon says as he makes to stand, Brynhildr’s pages flowing in the nonexistent breeze as he peers over his defiant advisor for the last time, “and it is now time for me to expel it from my sight.”

Zero bows, and makes room for his lord.

 

* * *

 

He peers into the mirror later that night, a coil of gems hanging lazily against his chest, “These look much better on my neck. Wouldn’t you agree, milord?”

Leon does not respond, instead staring at the dark wood of his desk.

He had felt odd ever since he expelled Gaddos to wherever the dead go. Perhaps to the same fields where his father roamed, with Marx at his side, quiet disapproval at Leon’s lack of remorse ever present on his brother's face as he watched Elise weave crowns of daisies and baby’s breath and every other flower that refused to bloom on these cursed lands. 

He can picture it clearly now: her dissatisfaction with him most of all, that he had sent more and more to their deaths even after war’s end.

 _But traitors don't deserve to live_ , he tells himself. And then he sees Kamui standing there, in the light of Hoshido accompanied by so many. _They_  don't deserve to live. But why does he feel the pangs of guilt beat against his ribs when he tells himself that? It leaves him rather dizzy—

“Leon?” hands cup his shoulders, and he turns in his seat to see a string of creamy pearls mocking him.

It's too much.

The gentle tone with which he says his name, the rare glint of worry behind a veil of silver hair, all with a necklace that shakes whatever convictions he has about the punishment he has dealt to so many.

The weight of the dead is heavy.

“Call me that again." It grounded Leon, to hear _him_ say it, the only other person besides his sister who might call him by that name.

“Leon,” Zero offers easily, “perhaps we should go to bed.”

He doesn't argue, but hardly makes to move either. Leon brings his head forward, resting it against Zero’s chest as he breathes in. Be it the crown or a string of pearls, something was always slamming against his head and reminding him.

There were pearls on Zero’s neck, but there was also a head.

That head would stay there, so long as Leon was king.


	3. It’s just this thing I do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leon loves Camilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided two chapters needed to be dedicated to leon and camilla's relationship. this is part one.
> 
> suicidal thoughts, violence... please don’t read this if you’re sensitive to any of the materials listed.
> 
> the ending to this chapter is very intense. i’m scared to post it.
> 
> unbeta’d.

As much as she tries to hide it, Camilla is a shell of her former self. 

It works on the servants, the ladies who tend to her, the chefs who feed them as their own families go hungry in the barren fields – it’s a pretty mask of gratitude and hope she wears. A living, dancing, beautiful husk of a women who once brought the battlefield to her knees.

No, Leon is sure she is still more than capable of bringing about destruction to anyone and everything. Now more so than ever, perhaps; yet he can’t help but wince as she gazes at him with that deadened eye of hers. It fills him to the brim with unease. The lack of emotion, the curve of her lips and understanding expression she offers him, yet he’s certain Camilla has long since ceased to listen to his endless ramblings and hefty list of complaints.

Everything is so contrived. But...

Camilla’s presence is soft -- a balm to his sore and tired heart, and she is well aware of that fact. His dear sister has always been so eager to please. Even now, as they share a meal in the dining room with three empty chairs, she gives him what he needs: familiarity, feigned as it is. She’s graceful in her movements, a glass to her lips as she sips on red wine. There’s a twinkle in her eye, a spark of her old passion shining through the seams. It makes him forget, yet remember all the same.

He forgets that he is king of a dying country.

He remembers that he is not alone.

He forgets that he has been replaced.

He remembers that Camilla is here.

He forgets that he is terrified of his own thoughts.

He remembers that there is still one living reminder of the past.

Camilla is here with him. His dear sister. The one who has been by his side since the very beginning and will remain until the very end.

And so, even if it’s contrived, even if her smiles don’t reach her eyes and her kindness and warmth and strength are all mere fabrications now, Leon realizes that it’s enough. Her heartbeat is enough. The breath which fills the lungs of an empty woman is enough. Camilla’s very existence is enough.

After a long pause, Camilla offers him a quizzical look. “Are you finished, dear?” she smiles so sweetly at him, “I wanted to hear about your trip to the little village in the south.”

She is enough.

 

* * *

 

And then there are days when Camilla is cruelty incarnate. It’s never on purpose, no, she could never bring herself to harm the brother she so doted on, but it’s an insidious thing. The wickedness which accompanies her sighs and stares, and when Leon is the subject of her intense gaze he can’t help but crack.

It’s all the same, this setting. Camilla sits across from him, hair of lovely violet wrapped in a loose braid, and were it not for the occasional cough and sniffle he would have been tricked into thinking she was the picture of perfect health. A dinner table filled with cuts of meat and the crops he so painstakingly grew with his sacred tome lies before them. Brynhildr is a mere farm tool now, meant to feed the starving masses. But the food is bland; the wine bitter. It burns his throat and he’s sure Camilla will wince as it goes down hers.

She doesn’t.

Her eye remains locked on him as she brings the glass to her lips and empties its contents in a single sitting. Now he feels small, even without his father’s armor weighing so heavily on his frame. Leon looks at anything but her, clearing her throat so as to fill the stagnant air, but still Camilla gazes at him. It’s as if she finds him to be a far more filling meal than whatever sits on her plate. And when Camilla speaks with that raspy emptiness, it shakes him to his very core, sends a shiver down his spine, “How long?”

Leon finds himself reaching for the wine, the perfect face of composure as he closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see her anymore. “Several days, at most. I don’t expect to-”

“How long is several days?" 

At the very least, her interjection gives him time to swallow down his alcohol and consider his words. “Four days. That doesn’t include travel. If all goes smoothly, I’ll be back in six.”

Camilla gazes at him still, eyes heavily lidded and bags so prominent in the dim lighting as she mulls over his answer. When she deems it sufficient, Camilla turns her attention to the plate in front of her, picking at the garnish with her fork in silence. Leon releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. It’s quiet again, but not so stifling as he returns to his food.

“I miss them.”

Leon freezes. When he looks up, he can’t make out the expression on her face. “Camilla?” 

“I’m more than well enough to travel,” she gazes up at him again, but it’s sad this time. It screams of helplessness – desperation, as if he is her savior, the bridge to the one she values most.

But Leon is cruel. He is a selfish person, a shell of a man blinded by envy and hatred and loneliness. When he stares at Camilla, he does not want to acknowledge the hope that shines so bright in her eye when she speaks of Kamui. He is childish. Petulant. Jealousy incarnate. The hatred and insecurities that have settled in his heart make Leon’s head spin.

He will never be enough.

So yes, Leon is almost thankful that she is too ill to travel – to even think about leaving him for a sibling who has ceased to love her, regardless of whatever insincerities Kamui whispers in her ear.

“On the contrary, I prefer that you came with me. It will be difficult for both of us without you there.” The latter, at least, isn’t a lie. It was difficult to be in the same room, nay, the same country as Kamui without Camilla’s presence at his side, but Leon’s selfishness screams out louder than any reason. He will keep her here, trapped in the underground where they both belong. “Even so, you agreed with the healer yourself – you were too weak to get yourself out of bed this morning. Traveling is out of the question.”

He perceives her shoulders slump with acceptance. “Always considerate of me,” and it’s so unlike the Camilla from all those years ago, he can’t help but think; bedraggled and enveloped by the empty space of the dining hall. Still, the smile she gives him is enough to set his mind at ease. It’s weak and all too easily extinguished and it fills Leon with a sick sense of pride that Camilla is giving it to _him_ and not Kamui.

“I’m sorry,” Leon sighs, and whether it’s from relief or true sorrow for her he cannot say. Regardless, he is a good actor, and Camilla plays along. He doesn’t pay attention to how the fork shakes in her hand. 

The rest of the dinner is quiet. He does not want to discuss the heavy burdens of his work tonight. Camilla is a wraith who wanders the castle when she is not training the remnants of his army. There is nothing to talk about with a dead woman.

Leon does not mind.

When the table is cleared and they wish each other goodnight, Leon cannot help but want to offer false comforts. Glad as he is, it gives him pain to see Camilla so disheartened. He hears her cough, sniff, sneeze, and whether it’s from sickness or pent up emotion or a combination of the two he does not know, before she retreats into the endless hallways of their empty home.

Leon offers a cursory glance toward the dinner table. It’s always cleared by the servants, and tonight is no different.

When he looks at Camilla’s side of the table, he sees that her fork is bent.

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet carriage ride that spanned a day or so, and he can’t help the pangs of guilt that beat against his chest as he gazes at the endless mountaintops. He’s in Hoshido now. He can still see Camilla at the gate, waving him goodbye with a handkerchief in her hand and a too wide smile on her face.

It’s so bright. Hoshido has always been this way, the sun shining and blinding him. Leon looks away from the window, directing his gaze to his ever attentive retainer. Zero offers him something akin to a smile. It’s bitter and tired, and if Leon truly pays attention he’s almost certain Zero is squinting. 

It’s too bright. They don’t belong here.

Still, Zero raises his hand, placing it against the back of Leon’s head and urging him to lean against his shoulder. It’s a small comfort, and Leon sighs as Zero runs his fingers through his hair. The soft color of his cloak is far kinder to Leon’s eyes. His breathing – steady. Always so steady, one of the few things in his life which offers him the reprieve of stability.

Protocol considered, Zero shouldn’t have been with him. He should have been on his own horse, leagues in front of the carriage and scanning the area for threats to his lord.

But they were beyond protocol at this point. Leon remained there against him even as the castle came into view.

The odd stares they’re gifted with as they step outside the carriage and onto the path leading to Shirasagi make Leon want to laugh. Zero maintains a respectful distance once they’re both safely on the ground, but it’s so amusing to see the castle guard eye them suspiciously.

King Ryouma is there, accompanied by his youngest sister. Kamui meets his gaze, clad in soft fabrics of the brightest colors he’s ever had the privilege to see. Their hand is cupped around Princess Sakura’s shoulder. Sakura is the only one aside from Kamui to offer him something akin to a smile. It’s demure in nature, delicate and cautious.

He has spoken to her a time or two, pleasantries exchanged without the thinly-veiled disgust that makes him feel small. Sakura is kind to him. He prefers her company among all others here. Camilla once told him that she favored the youngest princess as well, but he is certain she is only reminded of Elise when Sakura is in her presence. And yet... Even now, the pity with which she gazes at him makes him want to wretch 

She is too kind. So kind, it’s _insulting_.

Ryouma is the one to greet him first. His voice is composed, and he confronts Leon with the air of a king. He is tall, an imposing figure with a crown that matches Leon’s in grandeur but fits him so much better. Ryouma is kind to him as well, though he sometimes lacks the tact and compassion his sister has in abundance.

It reminds him of Marx.

Marx never expressed himself through words. Marx used actions and gifts and showings of good will to express how deeply he loved them. He thinks Ryouma is the very same way. Especially now, as he offers Leon a weary yet determined smile, a nod as he speaks of duties that are to be tended to during his visit.

As if he is speaking to someone beneath him.

Deep down, Leon knows that is not the case, but he can’t help the disgusting feelings of jealousy and resentment that threaten to overflow. He feels like a stain in this holy country. His father’s cape lies listlessly behind him, cloaking the blades of emerald and endless seas of flowers that remain unbeknownst to him.

He does not belong here.

“King Leon? Are you alright?”

He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed. It was too bright. He opens them to see Ryouma, concern furrowing his brow and Sakura entwining her hands against her chest behind him.

He doesn’t look at Kamui.

“My apologies,” it’s automatic, “I’m afraid traveling has left me rather tired. Please continue.”

“No, it was rude of me to begin discussion the moment you arrived,” Ryouma offers Leon a smile that twists at his chest. He is conspicuous as he motions to the servants to tend to his belongings. “Your travels were without much difficulty, I presume?”

Leon hated small talk. A waste of time, he once reasoned, but it’s enough of a distraction from the pathetic, bittersweet gaze Kamui is gifting him with now. He engages in Ryouma for what it’s worth, only for the discussion to fall back into diplomatic affairs.

Ryouma is not condescending, even though some sick part of Leon wants to think that he is. Ryouma is logical and firm in his calculations. Supplies, supplies, supplies. Yes, Leon will agree to almost anything this man says to save his dying country. But although Ryouma is kind to Leon and his people, he understands that it’s all a game.

Stability within Nohr is the true reason behind his seemingly endless aid. Leon is well aware of Ryouma’s strategy. If he can usher in a new age of stability, Ryouma will be hailed as the founder of a new golden age – beloved by his people and history alike.

Marx was the same way.

Ryouma is the one to lead him through the gates. They pass by Sakura and Kamui, and the youngest princess fumbles with an awkward bow. It’s a grand entrance, one fit for someone of his standing, he supposes, as the palace guard and Sakura and Kamui and Zero follow behind, but it all feels so surreal. Leon should not be standing here, side by side with another king as the crown sits atop his head.

It should be Marx. It was supposed to be Marx. Marx was ready for this. Leon is not. Now, as Shirasagi stands overhead, he realizes that the sun is too bright.

And then, for just a moment, he thinks that Camilla would look far more fitting next to the king of this blinding country.

 

* * *

 

There are more greetings after that. Names are offered to him. There are servants provided by his host that will be tending to him for the remainder of his visit. Zero doesn’t seem too pleased about that, if the way he eyes them is anything to go by.

Leon does not seek Kamui’s company. He sees them all but race toward him. No, it’s not a rush. It’s discreet in the way their bare feet glide across the floor toward him. Kamui was naïve, not uncouth. They were raised as royalty. But Leon is quicker. He avoids them, all but dancing from one diplomat to the next until the evening reaches its conclusion and he rushes to his room.

An entire wing is deemed as his own. It’s unnecessary, as he is hardly here for pleasure and will be spending most of his time hunched over paperwork, but he does not complain. There’s no one to complain to, besides.

He burns candlelight that night. He thinks to write to Camilla, but he does not have the privilege of time. The work is unending, even when he is not present in his own country.

He struggles to keep his eyes open as Ryouma speaks of pressing affairs the following morning. The Hoshidan royal family is in attendance, with the exception of Sakura. He does not remain unbeknownst to how Hinoka stares at him with a guarded front. Takumi is to Ryouma’s immediate right, and Leon does not dignify his clipped greeting with a response. 

Kamui is staring at him from across the table. They want to say something to him. They’re giving him that face – the face which reeks of nostalgia and memories of softer times. The face which reminds him that he is being unfair to them, and he replies with indignation of his own, turning away and spinning words which are meant to appease this too-wealthy country. The older members of Ryouma’s council are impressed, at the very least. They have always been the hardest to please.

It’s times like these when he can feel the crown all but burning into his head.

But Ryouma offers him a strange look. It’s rather proud, an expression which reminds Leon of Marx. The way his lips curve – the fire which burns so bright in his eyes as he watches Leon enter a heated debate with a less than diplomatic attendant.

He should be satisfied to be graced with such praise, quiet as it is. But it only fills Leon to the brim with unease. Ryouma looks just like Marx. Leon wants to pretend that _he_ is Marx.

But Ryouma makes a point to get through their council as quickly as possible, and Leon all but breathes a sigh of relief when the gaze of the fiery princess leaves his form. He does not bid her farewell as she leaves with Ryouma. All that he wants to do is rest, if for a moment. He thinks to peruse the library until he sees that mane of white. Kamui is speaking with Takumi now, attention directed away from Leon. He’s ready to count his blessings as he briskly leaves, the servants at his heel as he makes to his wing.

“Leon!” 

His heart drops.

Leon stops and turns, and he has to make a conscious effort so it isn’t slow and doesn’t express his dread. He dismisses the servants, but they’re never truly gone. He knows that more than anyone here. An outsider. Precautions must be taken for someone of his kind, and he is reminded of that fact when he sees Takumi standing behind Kamui further still.

Leon contemplates whether or not he should even acknowledge him, but finds that he’s already smiling at his own rotten luck. “Prince Takumi.” 

He almost wants to laugh when Takumi eyes him. It’s laced with suspicion, thinly-veiled contempt and disgust and every other look that makes Leon want to burn this country to the ground. “King Leon,” damn, but does Takumi _try_ to humor him with a modicum of goodwill.

“Where’s Camilla?” Kamui steps forward, and Leon fights the urge to back away.

He wishes Camilla were here.

But when he sees Kamui standing there, the epitome of youth and hope and all the things that send Camilla to her knees, Leon is reminded of the fact that he is cruel and is glad that she is trapped in Nohr. But allow him to humor Kamui. He is tired, and would rather not spark a pointless argument with their brother.

“She fell ill,” it reeks of brevity, but Kamui doesn’t seem to notice. He knows exactly what’s going through that selfish little head of theirs. _She’s too sick to see me?_ And when Leon closes his eyes at the sight he can still see their agonized expression. He wants to burn it into his memory. When he iterates he does not open them, “She’s hardly on her death bed, if that’s what you’re concerned about. We both agreed that it would be better for her health if she didn’t travel.”

He perceives them sigh in relief. When he opens his eyes he sees Takumi behind them, arms crossed and feigning disinterest. “She’s not one to get sick.”

“No, she isn’t.” Of all their years together, Leon never knew Camilla to become so ill as to be bedridden. Perhaps once or twice during childhood, when a sickness that threatened to bring the castle to ruin (or, and should the gods be so kind as to give him the privilege to forget, when Camilla was poisoned by another of father’s favorites) those are the few times in which he can recall his sister so feeble. 

The conversation dies away. Leon has nothing to say to Kamui. Leon will never have anything to say to Kamui for the rest of his life, and he can’t help but grow prideful when he sees them shrink in the silence.

It’s rather pathetic. The king of Nohr should not stoop so low as to revel in empty victories such as these. Marx would never entertain the thought of being so pitiful. 

But Marx is dead and Leon is king and he’s forced to stare into the eyes of his killer. Leon has the right to be cruel. He has the right to envelop this bright world in the darkness which so clings to his being. He has the right to stand before Kamui and serve as a reminder, tall and foreboding as a cursed crown sits atop his head -- _his_ birthright.

“But... how are you, Leon?” and their voice rings so clear, so akin to the tinkling of a crystal bell that it has Leon’s previous thoughts of pride shrink away. Kamui is staring at him now, concern and a bit of hope seeping into their gaze. The roles are reversed so easily. The cruelty of his thoughts weigh heavily on him now.

Because, gods, if it isn’t Kamui’s presence itself that gives him pain, it’s their unceasing kindness. It reminds him of the past, of secret trips to the Northern Fortress and hide-and-seek in the grand halls. He remembers the books they would read together in the library in the quiet of night, only to have Elise barge in and demand that they play in the snow. 

He fights away the memory with all that he has. 

“I’m fine,” is all Leon offers, finality in his voice as he closes his eyes once more, “Thank you for your concern.”

But Kamui, sweet, naïve Kamui – they just don’t seem to understand that he wants them to stop. “Are you sure you’re alright? It’s just... You don’t...”

He nods. He’ll do anything to go back to that silence. He wants to see Camilla now.

“When you speak, you close your eyes,” Kamui says quietly. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Kamui was about to raise their hand and bring it to his cheek. It’s all too much. “You never did that before. Are you sick? Is something wrong with them?” 

“The healers here could help you. Probably more than anyone in your country ever could,” Takumi’s voice is a slap to the face. It’s mocking in every sense of the word.

It’s too bright.

It’s too bright and the hatred this country has for him is washing over him like the waves of the sea. It’s too bright and _Kamui still smells like home._  

“Please, Leon...”

It’s too much.

“Just tell me what’s wrong—”

“I said I’m fine!” Leon snaps, and Kamui backs away, stunned. He doesn’t care if he looks like a madman, eyes blown wide and teeth grinding. He doesn’t care if his sudden outburst hurts whatever feelings they harbor for him. He doesn’t care when Takumi steps forward, a warning, the veil of goodwill having been abandoned and leaving only contempt.

Kamui doesn’t say anything. They look away, and the dejection that forms in their brow leaves him writhing. They’re done with him.

He takes in a shaky breath, releasing the tension in his jaw. When Leon speaks again, every word is calculated beforehand, “If you are finished, I will be going now. Excuse me.” 

He doesn’t wait for Kamui to say goodbye. He doesn’t see them raise their hand in a feeble attempt to stop him as he turns. He doesn’t see Takumi’s smug expression as he watches the king of Nohr all but run away.

Leon is cruel.

No wonder Camilla always preferred Kamui.

 

* * *

  

The days which follow after his run-in with Kamui are racked with exhaustion. Leon hardly sleeps. When he does, he sees Kamui in his dreams. He sees them with a sword that he does not recognize in their hands. He watches them transform into a terrifying beast and destroy everything around him, only to have them weep before him and ask for forgiveness for their sins.

Why him? Why must they burden him with the weight of that word – forgiveness? What is deemed enough of an apology? Aid for the country they abandoned? The promise of peace? A gift from the heart? Their own life? What would be enough? What would Marx and Elise deem to be enough? How is Leon meant to know these things when the hatred and the rage and the sheer emptiness he feels blind him from common sense?

Camilla would know what to do. Camilla should be here.

But it’s the fifth night now, and he realizes that he was mistaken in telling Camilla that he would be back in six. He means to write to her, tell her that he misses her and would be returning as soon as possible, but Zero convinces him to rest outside after a particularly draining day.

“Kamui said something interesting to me.” It’s in the dead of night when he has time to speak to Zero without formalities. The guest garden is perhaps Leon’s favorite retreat in Shirasagi. There’s a pond some leagues away from the stone bench upon which he sits. Koi, he once read. They had a fondness for that species of fish here. “They told me that when I speak, I close my eyes.” 

Zero’s gaze doesn’t leave the moon overhead. His arms remain crossed, guarded – and Leon again remembers the circumstances of his visit. He was an esteemed guest, but Nohrian all the same. Eyes were always on them.

But Zero does not ignore him. He is the only one to offer some semblance of comfort in this foreign land. “Only here, my lord,” _In Hoshido,_ remains unsaid, but the silence tells Leon all that he needs to know. Zero sighs, shaking his head in disapproval, “Even at night, it’s too bright. I never knew the moon could be so... gaudy.”

“It’s the same as it is in Nohr.”

Zero shrugs. It’s not lacking in respect, but rather a showing of his fatigue. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Leon supposes he couldn’t.

The silence that follows is comforting. It envelops him, just as a warm blanket in the midst of autumn would. It’s a reprieve that leaves Leon at some semblance of ease. The scene is familiar, Zero gazing skyward, as if he’s searching for answers while he makes his way through a sea of stars. He’s the same as he is in Nohr, if he excludes both physical and mental exhaustion. His silver hair is unruly, but endearing to Leon all the same.

“I hate it here,” Zero’s voice is what breaks him out of his stupor. There’s a smile playing at his lips in spite of his cold words. “Times like these, I wish Camilla would come in your stead. Maybe it would be best if you two took turns...”

Though he’s sure Zero doesn’t mean it, the implication of his words hurt. It’s a simple suggestion. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. It’s not meant to be this or that or anything, but the words leave Leon’s mouth before he can stop them -- “Camilla belongs here.”

“A permanent diplomat?”

Leon nods and closes his eyes at the thought. He doesn’t want to see her here, wrapped in fine garments of whites and soft purples and reds as she laughs with Kamui.

“And what about you?” Zero draws closer, the soles of his boots brushing against the fallen leaves.

“I would never have to come back here, just as you said.”

“Look at me.”

Leon does. It’s slow as he opens his eyes. Zero is level with him now, kneeling as he brings himself closer. They’re all but sharing air now, but Leon is too tired to push forward or move away. There’s something crinkling in his eye, and it makes Leon lose his breath until Zero closes the gap and brings their lips together.

It’s slow – a kiss only in name. It’s devoid of want and desire and any other intense emotions that might send Leon to the brink. It’s simply delicate, as if his retainer were treating him like glass, and it fills Leon with a sense of peculiarity to have Zero be so gentle with him, but he does not mind. He hardly moves as Zero places his hands against his cheeks, urging Leon closer. It’s simple, and when Zero hums against his lips he forgets where he is for just a moment.

When he pulls away Leon is entirely satisfied. It quells the flood of thoughts in his mind, if for a little while, as he opens his eyes to see Zero gazing back.

The moon doesn’t seem so bright now.

Still, he can’t help but wonder as Zero brings their foreheads together, “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m selfish.” He’s grinning now, but the hands on Leon’s cheeks remain firm. They ground him to this harsh, cold, beautiful reality. “I’m the most selfish person you’ve ever met. Don’t you agree?”

Leon rolls his eyes, but the genuine mirth in Zero’s urging is enough to elicit a chuckle or two. For now, Leon humors him, nods in agreement even though it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“It’s fun, being selfish.” At that, Zero draws back. Not entirely, but enough for Leon to miss his warmth until he rests his head against his lap. There’s a beat or two, and Leon raises his hand and cards his fingers through the snowy white tresses. “You should try it sometime,” Zero sighs, eye closing in content.

Leon understands what Zero is trying to tell him, but does he truly not understand that Leon is selfish every day of his life? He looks up to the night sky, streaks of gray rolling across the moon, and doesn’t close his eyes from the sight.

 

* * *

  

The final day of his visit comes quickly after their rendezvous in the garden. He had felt motivated, more aware, and though the unpleasant feelings within him arose when Kamui gazed at him from across the room, he buries them deep. It’s no longer all consuming. 

But the strength from Zero’s comforts are temporary, and Leon knows that. As the morning of their departure arrives, the exhaustion is beginning to wear him down again. When he sees his carriage and Zero tending to the final preparations, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Kamui serves as Ryouma’s replacement. Matters that needed to be tended to in a far-away village, someone had told him, but Leon isn’t exactly weeping for his lack of an audience. Still, Kamui approaches him with caution. Their hands remain behind their back. “You’re leaving already,” Kamui notions to the carriage, a bitter smile on their face, “It feels like you just got here.”

“On the contrary, I stayed far longer than I planned to,” Leon sighs. Truth be told, he was dreading the work that had surely accumulated while he was away. “No rest for the wicked.”

Kamui offers him something akin to a chuckle. It’s small, and just for a moment Leon tricks himself into thinking that all is right with the world. “At least the ride will give you a few hours of quiet." 

“Boredom, more like.”

“Sleep?”

“I’m not tired,” Leon lies for no real reason.

“Reading?" 

He opens his mouth, but closes it when he realizes that he has no excuse not to read. “Motion sickness,” he wants to say, but Kamui was not so daft as to forget his preferred way of combat. Leon concedes, placing his hand against his hip, “I suppose.”

Kamui seems pleased, and the conversation ends there. Still, he does not miss the way their smile falters ever so slightly. They both knew what was hanging over them, “Leon... About the other day--”

“I apologize.”

Kamui looks up, confusion in their eyes as Leon gazes ahead, “Huh?”

“I apologize,” the words form automatically, “It was hardly right of me to be so disrespectful to my host. Travelling left me weary, but that’s hardly an excuse.”

They’re taken aback, but quickly recover, “I’m at fault too, Leon. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. Takumi certainly didn’t help either...” and it fills Leon with a peculiar feeling. It isn’t acceptance of the fact, but rather curiosity. He hadn’t expected Kamui to admit to their part in his meltdown, but it intrigues him nonetheless. He acknowledges it, and Kamui’s sigh of relief is hardly subtle.

It’s quiet again before Kamui remarks absently, “Receiving an apology from you, though... It’s unheard of.”

“Being king has taught me a lot of things. The dying art of apologies being one of them.”

“Isn’t it difficult?” It’s a simple question. It’s simplicity, as a matter of fact, is what leaves Leon wincing. Their childlike curiosity – as if this was the expected result, all so damning as they gaze at him without a care in the world.

Kamui will never understand. Kamui and Leon will never be able to talk and laugh and read together like they did a lifetime ago.

The past is dead. The present is unbearable. The future is as bleak as ever. 

Now, as he gazes at Kamui, he can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his throat. It’s Kamui’s turn to wince as his facade cracks, “Yes. It’s damn near unbearable,” Leon endeavors to hide the way his voice hitches. 

Kamui doesn’t say anything after that.

When all preparations have been made, Leon makes his way to the carriage. Kamui follows him, and he does not remain unbeknownst to the way Zero glares at them. They return the favor, offering him a cold glance as he makes to open the carriage door for his lord.

The hatred in the air is palpable. It makes him rather dizzy.

“Leon,” but he turns to Kamui, only to see them holding out a small wooden box and a letter wrapped tightly in red thread. Their hands were behind them for this reason, he can’t help but think. He stares at them, only for them to urge their gifts closer. He takes the box first, lifting the lid. Inside is a hairpin. It’s glistening in jade and gold and every other precious metal found in this horrible country.

“I miss her,” they say, a bittersweet smile playing at their lips. “It’s not much, but... I think it’s in her taste." 

He fights the urge to snap it in two.

“I hope she likes it.”

And then there’s some part of Leon that admits with despair that _Yes, of course she would like it. It’s from you. You’re the only thing that makes her happy_.

“You’ll deliver it to her personally, right?”

Leon nods, devoid of all emotion as he fastens on the wooden lid and takes their letter.

“Thank you,” they sigh in relief, a sheepish smile gracing their features. “Take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t respond as he makes his way into the carriage with Zero following close behind. It’s childish, but he doesn’t particularly care. He wants to go back to his dark crypt and sleep. 

Kamui waves him goodbye from the gate. The scene looks familiar, and he realizes that Camilla did the same thing several days ago. Even now, their mannerisms were almost uncanny in their familiarity. Their gift rests in his hand, and he doesn’t pay attention to the way Zero eyes him as Shirasagi fades away from sight.

“For Camilla?” Zero finally breaks him free from his thoughts, and Leon nods absently. He scoffs, arms and legs crossing as he stares at the passing scenery. “Seems you’ve been demoted to messenger.”

Leon is inclined to agree. He feels as though he’s going insane as he stares at the box, because when he looks up again the sun is setting over the forest line and Zero is fighting to keep his eye open.

He decides then that he will not stoop so low as to serve as Kamui’s messenger. He’ll never have to see the pin shine in Camilla’s hair. He’ll never have her read this letter.

Leon is selfish.

 

* * *

  

Their gifts are out of his sight by the time the gates come into view, but they weigh heavily on Leon’s mind.  Even now, as he steps out of the carriage and is greeted by the castle guard he can’t help but want to clutch at his chest, the place where their gifts rest.

But Camilla is a paradox. She eases that pain, all while splitting his heart in two at his own wicked ways. She is the first one to approach him. Nay, Camilla is the only one to step out and greet him – the only reminder of his past and the only one that might ease the burden. “Leon,” he hears her whisper, before wrapping his arms around him in a gentle embrace, his head pressed against her shoulder. 

This was hardly appropriate, but Leon has begun to realize that Nohr, as a whole, was beyond protocol. Even now, as his eyes close in content and he breathes in the scent of perfume and roses, he pays no mind to the way the castle guards shuffle about. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, and every horrible thought that has ever crossed his mind has ceased to be.

But Camilla breaks that reverie. It isn’t abrupt. She’s graceful as her hands fall to his forearms and urge him back. “I missed you, dear.” There’s a disapproving expression on her face, but the smile playing at her lips betrays it. Leon already knows what she’s about to say. “Do you know how lonely I was? You didn’t write to me at all!”

This time, the words don’t form without thought. It’s almost shy as he mumbles “I’m sorry, sister.” Still, he can’t help the laughter that escapes his throat as Camilla offers him the most unthreatening glare he’s ever had the privilege to see.

Leon means to apologize again. It was supposed to far more dignified that what he had offered her before, but Zero steps forward, having finished tending to the carriage. “He tried his best to make time, princess. 

“And I’m sure _you_ did your best to distract him?”

“Guilty as charged,” Zero offers her a dramatic bow.

At that, Leon all but turns red. He looks back at Zero, and then to Camilla, only to see them both giving him knowing looks that make him want to flee to his room and never come out. “That’s hardly... that isn’t—” he stammers, and stops when he sees Camilla barely containing her laughter. In front of his guard, no less... “It’s nice to know you’re well enough to joke like this.”

But Camilla’s expression changes. It’s brief and remains unnoticed to Zero as he snickers in the background, but it has Leon’s blood run cold. “I’m fine,” is all she offers as her eye goes dull. The next moment, the life comes back, and she gives his forearm a squeeze as he stares listlessly at her. “I will forgive you just this once. Next time, don’t forget about your dear sister, okay?”

He nods. Truth be told, it scares him how quickly her facade cracks. He wants to her to pretend that she’s okay for the rest of her life. For his sake. He’s glad to see her. He missed her. He’s glad she’s still here. He is so selfish, he’s almost beside himself as Camilla offers him the most radiant, forced smile he’s ever seen as she leads him inside. “Welcome home, Leon.”

She will always be enough. 

“I’m home, Camilla.”

 

* * *

  

Weeks pass after his return. The pain in his chest grows with each passing day, and it isn’t the weight of his heart which leaves him writhing. Their gifts remains close to him at all times. They’re in his drawer as he works. They’re tucked away in the recesses of his armor as he tends to his duties. On bad days, the hairpin will move within the pouch and the sharp end will leave a reminder of his selfishness on his skin. As he speaks to his people, as the members of his council argue amongst themselves, as he watches Camilla train the new recruits – the way he claws at his chest to readjust the pin is subtle enough so as to not draw suspicion.

After a particularly painful evening, Leon decides that it would be best to finally decide what to do with these heavy burdens. He’s in his personal library, the crown and his armor having been replaced with a comfortable tunic as he stares at the box and letter on the table. He looks ridiculous, gazing at the red ribbon with pure disdain, but he is alone and does not care. The hearth is lit, crinkling in the dead of night and providing warmth as the autumn breeze seeps through the window.

An hour passes, laced with pacing and looking through the contents of his bookcases and pondering where he should bury Kamui’s gifts. Perhaps he should lock them in the royal archives. Maybe he should throw them into the river. But then there’s some irrational part of him that screams otherwise – that Camilla would someday begin digging for priceless metal and find them. That she would one day deem fishing to be a suitable pastime and find them at the bottom of the river. That one day she would pay Marx and Elise a visit and decide to go to the archives as well, only to find them there. He sits down again, contemplating.

The only solution, reprehensible as it was, seemed to be sending Kamui’s gifts to their destruction. He gazes at the fireplace, and deems the ashes to be their final resting place. The pin shines brightly on the table, all but mocking him.

But something is screaming at him. It’s curiosity, and he soon finds himself unfurling the parchment. The red ribbon falls to the ground near his feet as he reads its contents.

 

_Camilla,_

_I thought you would accompany Leon on this visit, but I received word that you were too ill to travel. It scared me, when I heard that. Part of me always thought you were beyond sickness, that you would scoff at the thought of ever catching a fever and dismiss it with the same grace you carried through the halls of the Northern Fortress._

_I would have given this to you myself just so I could see your face, but I sincerely hope you like the pin. I picked it out myself, but you know me. I’ve never been particularly well versed in the art of fashion. Still, even if you don’t wear it, I hope you think of me whenever you see it._

_Since your last visit, I’ve--_  

 

Leon doesn’t care what they’ve done. He scans through their all too familiar handwriting as if it were some unimportant document. He sees Ryouma’s name occasionally. Sakura. Hinoka. Takumi. Their new family.

 

_I miss you, Camilla._

 

That is what makes Leon falter. He grips at the parchment, jaw clenched.

 

_It’s been too long. It’s been far too long since I’ve last seen you. I understand the situation in Nohr is grim, but still... I want you by my side. I want you to stay with me. Both you and Leon, I want us to be together again. Is that truly so selfish? Please tell me it isn’t. Please tell me Leon feels the same way._

_Feel better soon. If you are already well by the time you receive this letter, which I assume will be the case, I hope you stay that way._

_I will love you always, dear sister._  

 

Sister.

_Sister._

He’s not sure why, but he suddenly wants to vomit. He wants to destroy everything in this damned room, in this damned castle, in this damned country; nay, the entire world needs to rot away. It’s a horrible, disgusting feeling that takes over him. It releases him from the constant haze of misery and drives him into a corner of pure enmity. Every single emotion that he thought himself to be far above is now beating at his heart.

He wants to bring everything to ruin. The pin and parchment in his hand would make a great start. He stands up from his seat and makes to the hearth. It offers some comfort, the flames licking at his hands as he makes to toss these burdens into the fire.

“What are you doing?”

But Leon freezes, all but stone as a shock runs through his body, to the very tips of his fingers that hover so close to the fire. He turns, dreading to see her there, soft and curious. He doesn’t speak. There’s cotton in his throat, and he _should_ feel like a child that’s been caught sneaking extra dessert behind his mother’s back.

But he doesn’t.

Why?

“What are you doing?” Camilla repeats, soft steps accompanied by the hem of her dress grazing the floor. But, gods, he’s so careless, the gold of that damned pin shines so brightly against the light of the hearth. He should flinch when she stops, when she speaks-- “that’s Hoshidan, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t.

Why? 

“You should have told me over dinner that the Hoshidans gave you something,” she’s next to him now. Her voice is so sweet, so saccharine, like the horrible candy his mother would gift him with during his youth. It reeks of some hidden poison and he should be terrified of Camilla now.

But he isn’t. 

He knows why.

Leon’s grip tightens, the letter crinkling against the pin as a single eye widens. He dares to look up at her now. No, he’s all but defiant when he turns to face her. He stares, and it’s a relentless assault. It doesn’t shake her. Nothing ever does. But he can see how rigid her form becomes when their gift lingers a bit too close to the fire.

“Leon,” Camilla is the one to break the silence, and he says his name so gently. He picks up on the slight edge in her voice, so akin to a thief’s hidden dagger, “This is hardly like you.”

Strange. He hasn’t been himself for years now. It was almost insulting of her to say. But still, he does not want to lie to her. Even if he is angry; even if his blood is boiling for a reason that remains unbeknownst to him, he will be truthful to her. He loves her more than anything, after all, “It’s for you. From Kamui,” Leon offers easily, but he makes no effort to ease the disdain off his brow.

But the crinkle of happiness that shines in her eye ignites that hate tenfold. “Thank you for telling me. I would like my gift now--”

“No, you don’t." 

She pauses. It’s quiet, aside from the crinkling of the hearth. It’s damn near stifling, until Camilla crosses her arms in disapproval. “Don’t I, now? What were you going to do with it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He’ll be truthful with her. She deserves the truth. He’s not afraid of her anymore. “I was going to burn it.”

He can see the shock flash across her face for a brief moment. It’s terror, he can’t help but think – that he might go so far as to destroy anything related to Kamui must leave her writhing. But she composes quickly, a quiet sigh of relief leaving her. “I’m glad I came in before that happened.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t plan to. He’ll stand in this spot for the rest of his life if it’ll make her see all the cold realities of the world as the hearth shouts at him. “Leon,” Camilla repeats, voice firm with finality as she extends her hand, “My gift.”

“Why?” He hears himself say, and it prompts Camilla to quirk a brow. “After everything they’ve done to us... why? Why are you so blind to the truth?”

“What is the truth?"

“The fact that they don’t care, Camilla!” Leon shouts, any semblance of composure now lost, and it takes Camilla aback. The hearth is screaming now. “They don’t care. They never have. They give you scraps of feigned love”—he scowls at the pin in his hand “—and string you along! You’re just too blind to realize that fact!”

“If I’m blind, you must be deaf,” Camilla hisses, and it’s enough to put Leon in his place, if for a moment. He looks down, teeth grinding with frustration and indignation as she towers over him, “I said I wanted my gift. Give it to me.” But he offers no response. “ _Now,_ Leon _._ ” 

The roaring of the hearth is deafening. “I hate them,” Leon whispers. He looks up, every single horrible emotion burning in his eyes as he stares at Camilla, “I hate what they’ve done to you!” 

His gaze leaves her, and he doesn’t hear her cry out his name. He doesn’t feel her hands come up to his wrists and attempt to rip away Kamui’s gifts from his hands. All he feels is the hatred enveloping his being as the hearth roars before him. It’s calling for him now, and for a single, fleeting moment, he isn’t afraid of anything. He’s stronger than Camilla. He’s stronger than Kamui. He will be the one to put this cruel world in its place as he shoves Camilla and hurls the pin and letter into the fire.

Please, allow him to revel in these empty victories. Allow him to smile -- grin like a madman as the letter curls in on itself.

But it’s quiet, and the hearth is silent as it burns the metal and parchment. The realization of what he’s done hits him when he sees Camilla staring listlessly at the fire with tears in her eyes. And then she looks at him, disbelief and pain and every other pitiful look that makes Leon want to falter. 

That is until her teeth are made bare and the hands at her side ball into fists. It vexes him, to see her bristle like a cat as she turns to face him. He does not back away. He’s not scared of Camilla, even though he should be. Nothing could possibly terrify him now. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Camilla seethes.

He scoffs, “I did you a favor. Kamui is a pestilence, a thorn stuck in your skin and they’ve infected you.”

When she speaks, her voice is dangerously low, akin to a prowling beast. “Don’t talk about them like that.”

It should shake Leon to his very core to hear Camilla use that tone, but he can hardly hear himself anymore as he counters with indignation, “Even now you go so far as to defend them. Why!? Why, Camilla!?” She says nothing, the tears in her eyes threatening to overflow. He grows frustrated from her lack of an answer. His entire life, it’s been silence from her on this matter. Why? Why, why, _why?_ Why _them?_

“Answer me!”

Nothing.

She’s always offered him nothing. It’s the same as always as she turns away and covers her mouth with her hand to bite back a sob. He feels so inferior now. If Kamui had asked, she would have answered. All of the power and pride and every other alien feeling is beginning to fade away. The haze of melancholia is coming back, and he’s terrified. He’ll do anything, _anything_ to be strong, to be above Kamui, to have Camilla appreciate him. Anything.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet, this was all for her own good. One day she would thank him, love him more than she ever loved Kamui. Leon wasn’t selfish. He has never been selfish in his entire life. But now the weight of what he’s done is hitting him, and as the dull pain in his chest grows and he feels water pooling in his own eyes he resorts to wickedness. It’s ugly. It’s disgusting. “If they truly did love us, they wouldn’t have left.” 

“That’s enough,” She’s sobbing now. It’s quiet and pitiful, and he doesn’t see the spark of desperation in her eye as she stares at the remnants of Kamui’s gift.

It’s vile. He hates the words that are coming out his mouth. They don’t help with the pain in his heart like he thought they would. Now it just feels like he’s hurting her, but he can’t stop. “They wouldn’t have replaced us with that pathetic excuse of a family. They wouldn’t have brought ruin to our country. They wouldn’t have—”

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll end both our miserable lives here and now.”

He’s hysterical now, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them. “Oh, be my guest, Camilla! Run your axe through our necks and kill us the same way your darling Kamui killed our family!”

He shouldn’t have said that.

It’s wrong. It’s all so wrong. 

It’s wrong because Camilla pushes him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. The carpet does little to cushion his back from the fall. It’s wrong because he feels her weight hit against his torso before he has time to blearily open his eyes.

When he does, Leon’s blood runs cold at the sight. 

She looked so... angry.

He had never seen her like that before. And to think that he is the one that brought it on, that pushed her to this point -- that he is the subject of the wrath burning in her eyes finally makes him numb with terror. Camilla is terrifying, teeth made bare and hair released from her coil of a braid. She stares down at him, and Leon feels so, so small. 

It’s wrong because just a moment later, her hands shoot upward and circle around his neck. Leon gasps for breath. Her nails dig into his pulse, and he grits his teeth and shuts his eyes until he sees stars. He claws at her wrists, but Camilla is strong. She’s always been stronger than him. That fleeting moment when he was the strong one, when he was in control and could overcome anything is gone.

“Camilla--” She’s choking him, doesn’t want to hear him speak. Her hands. They’re so, so cold. When did they become so cold? She’s always had such warm hands, hands that sought to comfort and spoil him rotten.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Leon can’t speak, can’t breathe – can hardly feel Camilla’s tears mix with his own on his cheeks. Even still, when he opens his eyes he can see her; see the agony so clearly on her face, the mask having fallen into the deepest trenches of the sea and leaving behind an ugly shell of a person. She’s empty, and the misery and despair and _contempt_ that overflow from her eyes burn into Leon’s vision, his very memory. They bore into him. They’re the things that make him lose his breath.

They’re the things that make him realize he does not deserve her.

He can smell the burning of metal and gemstone, a dizzying scent – or perhaps it’s the lack of air that makes Leon imagine it all – as his hands around her wrists slowly fall away. He can’t stand those eyes; dark eyes that tell him Camilla will never be okay. He doesn’t want to see them anymore. Doesn’t want to see anything anymore. Doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

It’s rather peaceful, the slight tremor of her hands, so similar to the ripples of his favorite pond in the gardens. It would be under the veil of night when they went on their excursions to that pond. There would be roses in bloom and the moon shining overhead as his favorite siblings collapsed in fits of laughter 

His eyes close in search of slumber. The hands at his throat tighten. The scent of burning metal fills the room. He can’t hear his siblings, only his own jagged breath and the weeping of his last living sister as she frees him from this agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can’t help but wonder... am i a cruel person? i hope not, just for leaving a cliffhanger at such a part.
> 
> 'it's just this thing i do' -- leon closes his eyes when he is in pain or distressed. it was inspired by his sprite in the game when he takes too much damage. he is very easy to read this way, i can't help but think. so, when he is saying something he does not really want to say, he closes his eyes.
> 
> as for “agony.” “nothing but agony.” “ending this agony.” i like that word “agony...” it conveys leon’s character during and after birthright very well, i think.
> 
> hm. camilla and leon... i don't want to say camilla loves kamui more than leon, but... well, you'll see.
> 
> if you read the author’s note before i deleted it, you’ll know that i left an excerpt that was going to be in this chapter. i decided to split this into two parts. that scene will be found in the next chapter.


	4. Can't you see? Only dead girls don't walk away from me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leon is almost enough for Camilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m very unhappy with this chapter, which is why it took me so long to release it. just take it so i don’t have to look at it anymore...
> 
> physical abuse. verbal abuse. child abuse. suicidal thoughts. 
> 
> **note:** there’s graphic detailing of garon’s treatment of his children. please take the above warnings seriously.
> 
> as for the coffins of the nohrian royal family, i had westminster abbey’s tombs in mind.
> 
> continued from chapter 3, even though it might not seem like it at first.
> 
> unbeta’d. and by unbeta'd, i mean it's _seriously_ unbeta'd.

Leon is fond of the hunt.

It has interested him since his first excursion, and excites him even now. At the tender age of seven, he feels as though he has been granted a boon in terms of maturity. Camilla did not accompany their father on his trips until she was nine, and Marx is not partial to such things. To know that their father thought so highly of him – that he had been deemed wise enough for his lessons before anyone else is enough to keep him awake at night.

But the trips happen less frequently, until they stop all together. Leon wants to ask why, the question at the tip of his tongue as he creaks open the door leading to his father’s study.

He had expected him to be writing, not choking on his own jagged breaths as he leans over his desk.

It scares Leon to see him this way. His hands clench at his sides, eyes going wide with fear as his father remains unbeknownst to his very presence.

He’s seen him like this a time or two, but for each occurrence he was ushered away by the maids or his siblings. Now though, Leon sees the sweat beading at his hairlin, waiting for him to stop. Only when he realizes that he won’t does Leon speak, his voice just above a whisper.

“Father?”

He sees him go motionless, the gasps for air coming to an eerie end. His father does not move. Nay, he barely breathes as Leon’s voice rings through the king’s quarters. 

He takes that opportunity to slip past the grand doors. Small steps, little noise so they do not aggravate. Leon has always been conscious of those around him, and that courtesy extends to his father most of all. “A-Are you alright?”

Silence. Perhaps he did not hear? He means to repeat himself, but his father’s voice is harsh, yet pained all the same.

“What do you want?”

Leon flinches. “Y-you promised me...” He’s playing with his hands now. Father hates it when he fiddles with them. Mother hates it, too. It’s uncouth, a clear sign of weakness, but Leon cannot help it as he traces the design of the carpet with his eyes. “That you. I...”

“What a shame. I’ve raised an insolent brat who can hardly speak.”

His words hurt. It’s like salt in an old, oozing wound. A long time ago, the things his father would say to him didn’t hurt so much. Leon wants to back down. He wants to dismiss himself and run away from this dark, horrible room, from the man who looks more and more like a walking carcass every day.

But perhaps this was all a test. His father would tell Leon stories. He would read with him in silence. His lessons were harsh at times, yet they came from a place of goodwill all the same. He can see him now, golden hair with light streaks of gray as he gives him a rare smile, ruffling his hair with a gentle hand after a particularly successful hunt.

So he stands his ground, memories of softer times fueling him as he brings his hands to his sides and finds his voice. “Father, do you still wish to go hunting with me?”

He hears the grandfather tick four, five, six times until Leon hears his father shift in his seat and gaze at him with nothing short of confusion. “Hunting?”

His expression causes him to falter somewhat, but he quickly composes himself and nods. Stand tall. Father likes it when he stands tall and without a shred of doubt. Stand just like Marx. _Stand just like Marx_...

But Garon does not say anything. All that he does is gaze at him from beneath the crown, and Leon can’t help but want to squirm beneath his stare.

And then his expression of utter pain returns to his face.

His father grabs at his graying hair. It’s a horrible, guttural sound that erupts from the back of his throat, a shiver running down Leon’s spine as he goes frigid with fear. He grips and grips at his head, tossing it back and forth, as if he were struggling with a being only he could see.

He hates the wet noises that are coming out his throat, the way he writhes in agony as strands of white fall from his head. He looks to the door and is ready to run away to the ends of the earth.

But he doesn’t.

Not because he’s unable to, but rather he hears his father’s voice instead. His real voice, a voice that is not laced with the cruelty that has so clung to it as of late.

“I-I did. I promised you that I...” Garon frees his hand from his head and slams at the desk. It knocks over an ink well, shattering and spilling its contents as it hits the stone floor. Leon yelps, jumping at the sound, but Garon remains unfazed. “Since then, I’ve... I’ve!”

“F-father?”

And then he snaps. 

The anger. The hatred. The enmity that radiates from his being -- that is what keeps Leon rooted to the ground and paralyzed with fear as his chair scrapes against the floor. His father circles the desk, armored plates striking against one another in a haphazard symphony as he draws closer. He is hunched in the way that he walks, so unlike the way he carries himself when in the presence of his court and the people, as if some dark energy were placing all its weight on his shoulders. He looms over him like a dark tower.

And then Leon can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore.

His father’s hand curls itself around the collar of his shirt in one swift motion, lifting him several feet above the floor with ease. Leon kicks at the air beneath him, two small hands curling around his father’s wrist as the collar digs deep into the nape of his neck. 

He starts screaming. The lessons of protocol, that he would be king someday and _kings do not scream in fear_ are lost on him as terror grips his form. His father’s eyes terrify him. They’re dark pits. He doesn’t want to look. If he does, he’ll fall into them.

“Worthless.” 

They’re dark. They’re scary. His teeth remain bare, white as death.

“Worthless!!”

They make him cry and wail until his lungs are sore. His screams are loud enough to drown out his father’s cruel words.

“Miserable insect!!” 

He doesn’t know how long it continues.

He doesn’t see the door open.

He doesn’t hear Camilla gasp at what she sees.

Leon does not see her rush to them, her eyes desperate and wet as she pulls at her father’s cape, shoving at her father’s torso. Their father pays her no mind. He continues with his insults, his cruel hand at his shirt. It makes Leon scream even more.

He feels his foot hit the back of her head, but she does not notice. The blood in his ears give way to her shouts. He hates it. He hates everything about this. He wants it to stop. He wants Camilla to make it stop. Marx is the best at making it stop, but Camilla can stop their father sometimes, too.

“Father, please!” Camilla wails, the wetness pouring down her cheeks as his father finally, _finally_ takes those terrifying eyes off his form and directs his gaze toward Camilla. She meets him with conviction, something burning in her eyes along with the terror. 

His father drops him. The nape of his neck hurts. His legs hurt even more as Leon crumples in on himself on the carpet. He sobs, choking on air and rubbing at his eyes as Camilla stoops to his level. She means to take him away from his wrath, carry him, if need be. He feels her hands on his shoulder, saying something to him, but he can’t hear her over his own cries. 

And then he hears his father’s voice. It doesn’t reach his ears, process in his brain, but it shatters against his bones, stilling his gasps for breath as her gentle hands are taken away with one swift motion.

His hands don’t curl against the collar of her shirt, but rather her neck. It’s a blood-curdling sight as Camilla takes Leon’s place in their father’s cold hands. The sounds of a closed throat are horrible, guttural, disgusting.

He hates it. He wants to make it stop. He hates everything about this. His lungs are burning. His legs hurt, but he finds the strength to stand. The roles are reversed so easily, Leon tugging at his thigh with as much strength as he can muster.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Only his sister’s nails scraping against their father’s gauntlets respond to his pleads.

“Please stop!!”

Nothing.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong.

He’s helpless. He hates it. He wants to make it stop.

He _can’t_ make it stop.

And so Leon runs away, fleeing from that dark, horrible room. He leaves his sister with that monster of a man as he squeezes the life out of her little body.

 

* * *

 

So the cycle of cruelty repeats.

To think that he has done this to her; when he has tried to shield her from whatever terrors their father’s crown might bring about, when he has kept Kamui’s cruelties hidden from view. Their insincerities, the poisonous words and promises they might whisper that all is well when it is not. His efforts to keep her trapped here and safe are meaningless as the scent of burning metal and parchment clot whatever air that can reach his lungs.

If only his death could turn back time. That he might take the place of Elise and her kindness or Marx and his conviction. Camilla will be all alone, or perhaps she will run to a sun-filled country and dance in a garden of flowers unbeknownst to him as Nohr rots away.

It would be a rather fitting end.

But that is not the case. Not because Leon wills it so, but distantly, muffled as he stumbles into the great chasm of unconsciousness, he hears the great doors of the library slam open. He does not know who stumbles upon such a scene. All that he sees is crimson and ebony and every other color so associated with death.

_Is this what she saw all those years ago?_

“-Leon!” He perceives a voice shout. It’s dulled from the blood roaring in his head, a mere cacophony of sound and movement as the bodies rush closer. He feels the weight lift from his waist. Her weight. Camilla is being pulled away, yet she grips at his neck like a lifeline.

He wills himself to open his eyes. Leon sees her struggle with the royal guard. There is a familiar shock of white hair behind her, pulling at her waist with so much force that the carpet beneath them curls in on itself under his heels. It’s violent as she thrashes like a wild beast, both familiar and new voices melting together.

“—Quickly, restrain her wrists!”  

“—Get  _off_ him!"

“Grab her—”

Camilla wails with pure agony, and it sends shivers down his spine as Leon watches from below. He feels like an observer in his own demise, his spirit watching from the seat across from them. He sees two armor-clad hands grab her wrists and pull away.

Her nails scratch against his neck when they do so, leaving behind angry red marks and beads of blood.

It stings, a shallow cut, but the sudden air filling his lungs hurts far more. It’s hardly a relief as Leon sputters and hacks, choking on an over-abundance of air as he rolls to his side and clutches at his neck. His heart is beating. It’s deafening, pulsating in his ears and shielding him from the horrible struggle before him for just a moment. 

“Let me go! Let me go!!”

Even in his haze does her voice makes his hair stand on end. It’s such a familiar sound that erupts from her throat. It’s wrong. _It’s so, so wrong_. _He wants to make it stop_. It’s pure agony as he looks up and watches her thrash and kick and claw at his guards. At Zero.

He wants to make it stop.

Stop.

Please.

 _Just stop it_.

“Stop!” He hears himself say. It doesn’t sound like his voice. It sounds like a voice from a long, long time ago. He sees Camilla cease her struggle for a moment. The two guards stand there slack-jawed, but Zero is the one who grits his teeth, eye narrowing. “Let her”—Leon coughs, fingers rubbing at his bruised and bleeding neck as he barely lets out a strangled— “let her go.” 

One of the guards means to argue with him. “But your majesty—”

“I said unhand her!”

The guards eye one another, only to look to Zero for some semblance of guidance. He scoffs after a hefty silence, before shoving Camilla away as if she were burning.  

Perhaps she is.

Because the hearth is quiet. Its stillness is mocking, and when Camilla adds to that silence it breaks whatever semblance of pride he has left. She catches herself, hunched and hair left a tangled mess as it cascades down her face. The enmity is fading. Even now, as wet streaks grace her cheeks and gleam in the dim light she asks him a question that takes his breath away.

“You want to die that badly? Truly?” 

Nothing. 

He will provide her with nothing.

He will sit here across from their burning gifs and clutch at the wounds she’s afflicted onto him. The guards behind her gaze on with something akin to terror. Zero scowls, the hands at his sides curling into fists. He means to say something. Scream something. Answer for Leon. Anything. 

But then she gasps, resorted to an eerie stillness. Leon does not understand why she stops every movement until her eyes fall upon the red trickling from his hand. It’s a shallow cut, but the blood oozes nonetheless.

It’s all so still as a drop falls onto the collar of his tunic.

And then her hands slowly rise. She gazes at them with horror as they shake and tremble. There is no blood on her hands, but the implications are there. There _is_ blood on her hands. Her brother’s blood. It brings her back to cold, cruel reality. The hatred disappears as quickly as it came.

“How could you do this to me? How could you be so cruel to me?” Camilla weeps, bringing her hands to hide her face as Leon begins to shake his head furiously. No, _no_. Don’t say it.

“How could you push me to do this?”

 _Don’t say it_ , Leon wants to beg, but the words die in his throat. He looks like a madman as he shakes his head to and fro.

“They.”

Don’t say it.

“They wouldn’t.”

_Don’t._

“Kamui would never.”

And then Camilla runs. She’s clutching at her shoulders and weeping as she runs past the guards and out of the library.

_Kamui._

No, they wouldn’t dare do whatever atrocity he’s done. 

Leon looks down at his own bloodstained hand. The flurry of his guards is just that – a mixture of words and movement as they kneel before him.

"Your Majesty—"

"We need to heal—" 

But Leon does not answer. Nay, he does not understand them as they all but cringe at his neck.

He hears a string of words that bring him back from the haze. “Should we go after her—”

“No!” Leon hears himself shout, a sudden burst of energy enveloping his being as he lifts himself up. He leans his hand against the table, and the guards eye one another. He sees Zero stop at the door. Odd. How had he not noticed he was already chasing after her? Zero remains silent nonetheless, and he is fully aware Leon is directing his words at him most of all. “Leave her be.”

“Please, at least let us heal your wounds,” he hears one of the guards speak.

“Get out.”

“Your Majesty!”

Leon grits his teeth, and by the way they shrink away he’s certain he looks nothing short of a wild beast. “I said leave!” 

They scramble to their feet, bows offered in haste, and they look back at him one last time as they make to follow his command.

Leon does not notice the subtle nod Zero gives them as they pass him and leave his library. All that he knows is that he feels rather hollow. Even now, Leon pays little attention to his own bloody hand smearing his neck. He does not care about the wound. He does not care about anything except Camilla.

Camilla. The very same sister who favored a traitor more than him.

He deserved the cruel words she said to him. 

He deserved the hands wrapped around his neck.

He just wished they weren’t her hands.

But he can still make this right. The thought echoes in his mind. It shields him from the newfound emptiness he feels in his chest. The thought that he could fix this, might be able to spin pretty words and go back to the way things were, just like Kamui. Just like Kamui...

He has to get to her room.

“Where are you going?” Leon ignores Zero. He takes a step. He’s certain he’s almost at the door. He’s so, so close. Even so, why does he feel like he’s hardly moved at all? He’s sure the knob is just within his grasp until he hears Zero’s steps, a hand curling itself around his wrist. “Hey--” 

“Let go.” The words leave automatically. It’s in a voice he does not recognize. The flame of the hearth frames Zero’s body, cloak now a blinding blue even though the dim light of the castle should prove otherwise. He wants Zero to let go of his wrist now, though his grip is certainly helping him keep the world in focus.

“Milord--”

“That’s an order, Zero!”

A distant part of him cringes at his own words. An order. He’s ordering Zero now, as if he were a common peasant. A common dog. Using his status to his advantage even when he has given him so much already – truly, how low can Leon stoop?

“Leon.” Zero uses _that_ name. It’s a name that’s almost foreign to him now, but he does not dwell on that. 

He needs to follow Camilla.

He needs to fix this.

“I have to apologize.”

Zero loosens his grip somewhat, stunned and gazing at him with a wide eye. He looks so angry. It fills Leon to the brim with unease, but he does not dwell on that either. “Apologize? Why the hell do _you_ need to apologize?!”

“You don’t understand...” 

Zero all but grinds his teeth in. “I understand that your sister was strangling you to death!!”

But Leon is too tired to care. He is too focused on the cruelties he has committed, on the apologies that are waiting to be said. “Didn’t you hear her, Zero? I have to—” 

But the world spins. It’s not from blood loss, he reasons, but a wave of exhaustion washes over him. He is dizzy, and the rage fades away from his retainer’s face as Leon clings to his cloak in a feeble attempt to keep himself upright. “Woah, hey!” He hears Zero say as he keeps him steady and walks him over to one of the chairs. “Here – sit down.”

“No! I—” He wants to fight, but he does not claw away. It’s useless. Leon is too tired to make it through the library, let alone to her room. He gives up, his hand running over his face and smearing away the streaks of wetness on his cheeks as Zero kneels before him and inspects the wounds.

_What have I done?_

 

* * *

 

He wakes up alone the following morning. There is no way to tell the passage of time in Krakenburg aside from the muted ticking of a grandfather, but his body tells him that he has slept for far too long.

The quilts of his bed are a quiet comfort – they rest just below his chin, cocooning his body from the cold air of the underground, from the atrocities he has committed and the words of regret that are sitting on his tongue. 

He does not want to leave. 

But the crown on his nightstand says otherwise. The numbness pounding in his chest is screaming at him to move.

 _Move_.

 _Trudge through the grime left in your own wake_.

So he does. It’s slow as Leon lifts himself into a sitting position. He stares at nothing in particular once the covers fall to his lap, feeling the emptiness of his room swallow him whole. It’s not such a terrible feeling. The quiet of his bedchamber shields him from what lies beyond those grand oak doors.

 _Camilla_.

She is what pushes him to continue on, to step out of his bed and make to get ready. He does not pay mind to the bandages that are wrapped firmly around his neck.

 

* * *

 

Camilla does not wish to see him.

Allow him to pretend that such a fact does not wound him. Allow him to continue on with his duties. Refrain from letting his counsel realize just how shaken he is by her lack of appearance all day. Disregard the way Leon’s hand trembles with apprehension as he signs his name in black ink on decree after decree.

But Leon has been trained since youth. If he so wished it, he would surely make for a brilliant actor in the streets of Cyrkensia. The servants do not notice. The nobles that so grate on his patience do not notice. The members of his counsel do not notice. 

Zero remains at his side. He does not speak to him, but stays close.

Leon is rather glad of the silence. 

Days pass. Camilla has yet to be seen. The nights are quiet without her blithe presence, feigned as it is. Were he truly as pathetic as he felt, Leon might say he would rather drink himself to oblivion than see four empty chairs at their dinner table. He feels as though he is trapped in a sea of self-pity as he dismisses his food after three halfhearted bites.

After the fourth day, with Zero in tow as they make their way through the dark halls, he hears them. A maid he is rather fond of. Her hair is tied in a messy braid — _just like Camilla in her youth_ , he can’t help but think — and her company is that of a younger butler.

“They say the princess is leaving.”

Leon stops dead in his tracks just behind the corner.

“Where would she go?” 

“Her mother’s estate, I’m sure.”

The maid pauses, contemplating. “It’s been left in disrepair.”

“Much like the princess herself,” the younger voice scoffs.

He hadn’t noticed Zero stepped out of their hiding place. “Gossiping in broad daylight?” There is no good-will in the way his retainer smiles at them, and when Leon follows him out of the shadows Zero gestures at him. “And in front of our lord, no less.”

The color drains from her face. She bows, the young butler following shortly after. “Y-your majesty, I—”

“That’s enough.”

He does not pay attention to the way Zero turns to him, confusion rampant in his eye as Leon walks forward. She flinches as he draws closer, her hands curling in a death-grip around the handle of the broom.

Leon passes them by.

 

* * *

 

“Is it true?” He catches her in the abandoned wing, tending to the wilting flowers on Marx’s desk. Not a speck of dust floats in his vision as she gazes at him. She looks like death, the simplicity of her dress giving her the appearance of a wraith as a sunken eye gazes at him.

“I’m not sure,” is all she says as she returns her attention to the hydrangeas. It’s a clear dismissal.

He takes in a shaky breath and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Another week passes. The whispers grow into mumblings, and the mumblings evolve into something far more sinister. Rumors tear the castle apart, though the citizenry appear to remain unbeknownst to the chaos his selfishness has wrought.

He would have been thankful for the lack of upheaval were it not for how hollow the news itself has left him. It’s left him so hollow, in fact, that he thinks the reeds in the marshes would make for better kings at this point.

Seeing her there, however, framed by memories of the past and clinging to hydrangeas shipped in from Hoshido — Nohr is rotten, it’s land cannot grow such fragile beauty — makes him feel nostalgic. Most of all, he simply feels unsure.

So he means to visit them. He’s not sure why, but he manages to clear a small portion of his schedule and make his way through the royal gardens. Through the gates. Through the courtyard and into the small cathedral in the shadow of Krakenburg. He dismisses the guards at the entrance. They do not need to listen to their king whisper like a madman beyond gold trimmed doors.

His ancestors rest here. The musty scent of death hangs heavy in the air as he makes his way through the grand hall. He sees them there. Leon stops just before them, a bitter smile playing at his lips as he sighs a tired sigh.

“Hello Marx. Elise.”

Silence. He was not expecting an answer. He has not stooped so low as to think the dead would speak to him. 

So why does it still hurt?

“I’ve...”—he stops, shaking his head— “No. _We’ve_ done something terrible.”

Nothing. He directs his gaze to his brother. 

“Marx. Watching me make a fool out of myself -- you must be disappointed.”

Nothing.

Marx has always offered him nothing. So he turns to her instead. “I’m sure you hate this too, Elise. You would always cry when any of us bickered.”

Nothing. His sister is kinder in her silence, but it still leaves him frustrated. 

He’s standing before her now, the hands at his side clenching into fists as he grimaces. “But _this_... it’s more than bickering, isn’t it?” 

Nothing. 

“Elise. What would you do?”

Nothing.

If he pretends hard enough, he can see her standing there, sweetbrier and daisies and every other flower that refused to bloom on this cursed land in her hair. He can see blades of grass clinging to her dress. He wants to reach out, brush them away and gently scold her.

But Leon’s hands cover his face instead, hoping to hide his weakness.

“What would you do?” He hears her heels, a regal dress adorned with violet gemstones swishing at her feet. Social as she was, he could see the flickers of annoyance cross her gentle features as the nobility pestered and prodded during the few balls their father permitted. She would retreat to her room whenever she could, and he’d follow her, hearing her supply her own music and play some fantastical tune on the violin. He can hear it now. He’d love to dance with her now. He’d smile for her now.

But he can’t. He drops to his knees, metal scraping against cobblestone and echoing against the hollowed walls. 

“Elise.”

_What would you do?_

Leon clutches at her tomb, head down low as the crown brushes against the engravings. It burns into his head – a weight that brings him down and sinks him deeper into the grave. He shuts his eyes until he sees stars, until he swears he sees Kamui in the blinding light of Hoshido, until he sees Elise smiling at him from across the library. He sees her mouth open, telling him what to do, but it’s silent all the same.

“Answer me, Elise!”

Nothing.

It’s the expected response. It’s always silence.

From Elise.

From Marx.

From Kamui.

From Camilla.

But even so, it makes his heart snap in two. 

“Camilla.” He sobs, a waterfall of emotions finally spilling from his eyes. It’s so childish, all so _pathetic_. The king of Nohr is a pitiful sight as he grips at his hair and curls in on himself, shivering from the cold and the increasingly familiar haze of despair.

“Camilla. Camilla. Camilla...”

And some part of him, some sick, twisted part of Leon wants his beloved sister to walk through those doors; witness what her final wish and his own self-hatred has done to him. So he calls for her, weeps and weeps like the child that he is, hopes that her comforting arms will wrap around him, hopes that she’ll kiss the top of his head like she would when they were kids and he would whisper apology after apology, until she would silence him with an apology of her own. And then she would take him away from this damp, cold place — hold his hand as they walked through her favorite garden and see him to his room.

That would be enough. He could live on like that.

But then, after a dreamless sleep, he’d walk into the dining room and see her gazing at three empty chairs with misery in her eyes. He’d see her wander the halls akin to a ghost, dancing to the nonexistent melody of Elise’s violin. He’d see her leave a single black rose in the vase on Marx’s desk, replacing it with another when the bud began to droop. He’d hear her weep in the deepest parts of the gardens when the castle was asleep.

She couldn’t live on like that. There’s a hidden part of himself that acknowledges that truth, reprehensible as it is. Camilla did not belong here, trapped in the underground and unable to see the one she truly loves — the one she truly deserves. 

Leon is selfish. The truth is cruel. It’s disgusting.

He wraps the cape around his shivering form. It offers no comfort. It’s simply cold, just like his father’s hands.

Leon looks to the brightest corner. His coffin is there, but it is empty. He lifts himself up, wiping away the streaks of wetness on his cheeks as he makes to his father's tomb.

He can see his hands now, frostbitten in appearance and colder than ice. They claw at the forefront of Leon’s mind as his fingers brush against the fading bruises on his neck.

 

* * *

 

He’s a child again.

He’s running. Running until he reaches the ends of the earth and falls off the cliff leading to endless space. Running until he feels as though the lungs inside his chest will burst. Running until the tears in his eyes fly away behind him in the wind. Past the servants and maidens and guards who will not help him.

Until he finds what he’s looking for. Who he’s looking for.

“Marx!!”

His brother turns in the hallway, all soft curls and slightly calloused hands that clutch a book close to his chest. He sees his mouth go into a thin line when Leon’s panicked eyes meet with his as he runs closer. Closer, until Leon all but throws himself at Marx and wraps his arms around his torso. It’s a death grip as he sobs quietly into his shirt, the book tossed to the ground just before his impact.

The hand carding through his hair helps him catch his breath. If he focuses hard enough, he can time his breathing to the up and down motion. “What happened?”

 _There’s not enough time to explain_ _before she_...

Leon shakes his head into his chest. It’s muffled as he speaks, spots of wetness staining his brother’s shirt in the process. “F-father. He.” Leon chokes on a sob. Distantly, he notices that Marx stills at the mention of their father. “Camilla...”

Marx sucks in a sharp breath.

That is enough for him to realize what has transpired. Leon is rather glad of just how quick his brother is, because he’s certain if he says anymore he’ll fall into a sea of misery and never rise above the waves again. 

Marx lets him go, gently tugging him away so Leon’s grip loosens. His thumb swipes away a streak of wet salt on his cheek and he smiles at him. It’s gentle. It reminds Leon of the rabbits and deer he and his father would hunt for in the forest all those months ago, and it’s the sweetest thing this cruel place has to offer.

“Don’t worry.”

And then his smile fades into something grim. Leon sees it for just a moment before Marx runs toward the way he came — to their father’s study. He tries to follow him, but his legs are far shorter. He is tired. Weary. His chest hurts, but he tries to keep up nonetheless.

He sees the door, Marx already barging unceremoniously into his study and rushing inside. He hears him shout their father’s name even before Leon reaches the doorway.

He doesn’t want to look inside. He doesn’t want to see Camilla’s lifeless form in their father’s cruel hands. He doesn’t want to see Marx reaching up and pulling at his wrists. He doesn’t want to hear them. He doesn’t want to hear their father’s grunts as he struggles to keep a firm grasp on her neck. He doesn’t want to hear Marx’s pleads. He covers his face with his hands and stops to the right of the doorway. He doesn’t want to hear—

“—Let her go!!” 

The snarls stop. Leon can envision them now, their father’s cold eyes going to Marx.

“—You...”

A thud. He hears Marx stoop down. He probably tried to catch her before she fell, but...

“Out of my sight.” His father hisses beneath his breath.

Of course his father would know he was standing just beyond the doorway. Of course he projects his voice, to trick Leon into thinking that he is standing just before him and ready to rip him in two.

“All of you!!”

Leon runs away.

Down the stairs and down the corridors and down the halls until he reaches his room and locks the door behind him and hides beneath the covers of his bed.

Blearily, he hopes that Marx was quick in his escape as well, tending to Camilla, making sure his steps are quiet yet swift as he carries her away from his wrath. 

...

It’s not until night falls, long after he’s ignored the dinner bell and his stomach growls with hunger after a restless sleep that he dares to peek from the covers of his bed. It’s evening. He doesn’t care if he’s starving.

He just has to see her.

So he crawls out of his bed and makes for her room. The maids pay him no mind as he wipes at his puffy eyes and attempts to have some semblance of dignity. If his mother were to catch him out his room now, she would surely throw a fit. He is sluggish in the way that he moves through the shadows of his home, exhaustion from crying and today’s earlier events weighing him down as Camilla’s door finally comes into view. He reaches up, twisting the knob quietly as he enters the dimly lit room.

A candle sits precariously on the edge of her nightstand, providing the only light as Camilla sits at her vanity. He isn’t sure what she’s doing. She doesn’t even notice him until Leon tentatively calls her name.

“Camilla?”

He sees her jump in her stool. When she turns to face him, the smile on her face is too wide, forced, but Leon doesn’t notice. She is so kind. “What’s wrong?” 

“Father,” Leon stumbles over his words, and eventually his own feet as he crosses the room and stands before her. When he looks up and sees the bandages wrapped tightly around her neck his voice wavers even more. “He. You—”

Camilla stops him. It’s not with words or a harsh, uncaring stare, but rather her embrace. He’s always liked how she smells of flowers, and as she gets down from her stool and wraps him in her arms he finds himself unable to keep the tears from falling.

“It’s alright. It’s okay,” she coos, and Leon shakes his head violently against her shoulder. _No, it isn’t okay,_ he wants to say, but the words never come. She ignores him, opting to run a hand through his hair so as to cease his movement. “You’re okay.”

“B-but you—”

“ _You’re_ alright,” Camilla repeats with gentle finality. “You’re alright. Everything is alright. All is right with the world.”

Leon believes her. If Camilla says so, then that is the truth.

It is Leon’s truth, at the very least.

So he clings to her, sobs and weeps and brings them both down to the floor as Leon loses the will to stand. His knees hurt against the sudden shock of stone, but he doesn’t care. He tries to focus on her humming, her scent, the soft fabric of her dress as he clings to her. 

He does not know when Marx enters the room from behind him. He does not see Camilla give him a serene smile, beckoning him to join them. All that he feels is another pair of arms circling around him and wetness at the top of his head. They are Marx’s tears.

Camilla is the only one who does not cry. 

Leon wonders if Camilla has any tears left to cry.

... 

She does. It’s not when she’s with him. Not with Marx. Not with a newborn Elise. Certainly not when she’s with her own mother. 

It’s Kamui.

They are there several nights later, the halls of the Northern Fortress shielding them from the coming winter. Through a keyhole, he sees Camilla cry silently as she clings to a confused Kamui. The bruises around her neck are ugly as the bandages lie listlessly on the ground around them.

Even so, they smile for her. It’s an imperfect grin that’s missing some teeth, youthful and kind and sweet and beats at Leon’s heart as Kamui reaches up and wipes away a tear from her cheek.

Camilla will cry in front of Kamui. Only Kamui. They will bear witness to her weakness, shoulder her burdens with ease and wear her trust like a medal of prestige.

The pang of jealousy hurts his bones. His heart. His very soul.

Even so, far be it for him to tell Camilla who to confide in — who to favor most among her siblings.

 

* * *

 

Leon is selfish.

Leon is so selfish, in fact, that he wonders if there is a spell to turn back time hidden in one of the royal archive’s tomes.

If he had done this, if he hadn’t done that. If he had said this, if he hadn’t said that. If he was like this, if he wasn’t like that.

If he hadn’t run away in Camilla’s time of need all those years ago, hadn’t let his father’s words shake him to the very core and leave him running to his room, if he had stayed and helped her after letting her knock on death’s door, then maybe...

Maybe this, maybe that.

Such thoughts are spurred by the green eyed beast. He knows that. Even now, as an armored hand curls in on itself on the top of the engravings of their father’s coffin, he feels some relief after coming to that realization.

“Is this truly how I will repay you, Camilla?”

Nothing. 

For some reason, the silence isn’t so oppressive anymore.

 

* * *

  

It’s the dead of night once Leon emerges from the royal crypt, and the one to greet him with a wry smile is Zero.

He doesn’t say anything. Not for a long time. He doesn’t reach out to touch him, hug him, anything. If he notices how puffy his eyes are, he doesn’t comment on the fact.

Leon is rather glad of all of those things as they stare at each other in the dim light of the world of the living.

“Did you get it all out of your system?” Zero tries to humor him, but Leon is not in the mood. The silence drags on. It’s strained now, and Zero’s smile borders on that of a pained one as he sheepishly looks away. “I’m sorry. That was a bit callous, even for me.”

Leon nods in affirmation, but he’s not hurt by his words. All that he does is graze Zero’s wrist with a few shy fingers. “Let’s get away from this place.”

Zero nods, taking the hint and entwining his hand with his.

They don’t make it back to the castle right afterwards. Something about Zero wanting to hold his hand a little while longer, so Leon humors him as they take the long way through the gardens. The silence is comforting. Rarely is it ever _not_ comforting in Zero’s presence. He’s moonlight incarnate, soft white hair and even softer hands and gentle blues and grays and— 

“Camilla is going to leave.” 

Leon’s mind is going a mile a minute. He knows it is, but the words leave his mouth all the same. They stop on the cobblestone path, hedges lined with roses blocking them from anyone’s curious view. They should be fine here, if for a little while.

“Are you going to stop her?” Zero asks as he turns to face him.

“No. I have no right to.” Leon looks down at their entwined hands, but his mind remains elsewhere. “She doesn’t belong here.”

Zero tilts his head, suspicion and something else twinkling in his eye. “She hardly belongs in Hoshido.”

The maids and the butlers are wrong. She would be absolutely miserable in her mother’s old estate. Anyone who knew Camilla was well aware just how much inner turmoil that would bring her.

Kamui, however... Leon knew. Her retainer knew. Zero knew, which was why he even mentioned that land’s name in the first place. So Leon shakes his head, the smile playing at his lips bitter and lukewarm. “But I believe she would be happiest there.”

“I disagree,” Zero steps closer, until he takes up most of his view. Leon looks up to see him narrowing his eye. “Do you really think she would be accepted by them?” 

“I will not keep her trapped here.” There’s finality in his tone. Zero knows him most, after all. Once his mind is made up, there is no changing it. Something about being a brat. Something about it being his most redeeming trait. Something. Something... his mind is racing as he numbs his heart to the possibility that he will be all alone once she leaves.

Zero sighs, rubbing at his face with his free hand in exasperation. “You both need to apologize.”

That keeps him silent. Perhaps a week ago, he might not have agreed with him – would have insisted that he was entirely at fault and Camilla did nothing wrong. Now though, as he looks from a window presented to him by time itself and recounts each action, each word spoken, he sees that no one is without fault. Not Leon. Not Camilla. 

Leon hurt her emotionally, mentally. 

Camilla hurt him physically.

He shouldn’t have said those things.

When he doesn’t peer on behind a veil of self-hatred and the tingling urge to die, the rational side of his mind tells him that she shouldn’t have done that to him.

It’s rather strange now, to think that he was in a more positive mood, if he could call him that. The longing for death, the desire to live, a conundrum – like his body was lost at sea and with each rise of the waves he’s either drowning in water or swallowing air. Right now, he would say he currently feels the latter.

Either way, she needs to apologize to him and he needs to apologize to her and—

“I need to apologize to you as well,” he gazes at Zero in earnest, his hand squeezing around his as he cringes at the memory. “I ordered you as if you were some common...” 

“Retainer?” Zero finishes for him. 

“Our relationship has developed far beyond that.” Leon shakes his head, shame forcing him to duck it down and hide his face from view. “I should not have said that to you. I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet for a minute or so, his apology hanging heavy in the air until he hears Zero hum in approval. He means to look up, ask if all is forgiven until an arm circles around his shoulder and brings him closer.

“Old habits die hard,” Zero whispers into his ear, and that’s enough for Leon to understand that he’s back in his good graces, as if he had ever left them in the first place.

“I wish they didn’t. It’s rather uncouth.”

“But they die all the same,” Zero assures him with a quiet laugh. The hand in his squeezes back and he gently pulls away. “Slowly, but surely. This was just a slip up.” 

Leon hates to make mistakes. He’s never understood why Zero is so accepting of them. Now though, as he nudges him along he can’t help but wonder if he needs to re-evaluate. 

“What are you going to do now?” 

“I will wait,” Leon answers easily as the doors of the castle come into view. “I believe I am ready, but I’m only one party in this situation. It would be unfair of me to barge into her room demanding that we resolve this when she’s in such a state.”

“How long will you wait?” 

“As long as it takes.” A pause. Allow him to re-iterate. “Not until I apologize to her. Even then, I will carry this mistake to my grave.”

Zero eyes him, turning away just before Leon can comment on it. “Your grave is getting heavier and heavier, it seems.”

It’s a watery grave indeed.

 

* * *

 

A few more days pass, and he fears that he’s losing his nerve again. He worries for her, so he makes sure that food is properly being sent up to her room. It is. There’s less food wasted with each passing day, and he finds himself calming down just a bit. 

He finds himself at the doorway of the library one night. It’s late. His duties will resume in the morning an hour or so from now, but he can’t sleep. He means to fetch a few books, distract himself from this and that and everything in between. 

He does not expect to see her there, back in the place where this whole mess started. She sits in one of the plush chairs just in front of the hearth, the outline of her hair stilling him at the entrance. But nothing escapes her. She is hyper aware, a string made taught, and she turns her head just slightly in his direction.

“Leon?”

He sucks in a quiet breath, eyeing the hem of his sleeping tunic and resisting the urge to tug at it. He was almost certain he had grown out of that habit by now. “Would you like me to leave?”

Silence. He means to repeat himself, until Camilla motions to the other chair.

“Sit with me.”

He does. He’s quiet in the way he approaches her, not saying anything even after taking a seat.

The crinkling of the hearth is the only sound that welcomes him as he dares to steal a glance at her. She looks to be in good health, all things considered. She’s almost too perfect. Her ankles remain crossed with one another as she looks straight ahead. Her mouth is a thin line, unreadable in the dim light.

She looks over, and when their eyes meet he is the first to look away. He chastises himself when he does. 

How childish.

But Camilla’s gaze returns to the hearth after a moment, and he goes back to peering over her form. Her hair looks recently washed, the nightgown giving her a softer appearance, her scarred hands placed perfectly on her lap—

“Your hands!” Leon hears himself shout, and he notices distantly that his outburst has startled her as he lifts himself from his seat and kneels down to inspect them closer.

She lets him. For that, he is grateful.

But there are questions sitting on his tongue — too many to count — as his eyes narrow in concern and rampant confusion.

“I tried to sift through the ashes,” Camilla reasons.

He turns one of her hands. The palm is worse, pink and blistered, but not severely damaged. “Gods... why didn’t you go to a healer?”

“I’m not sure,” Camilla says, seemingly perplexed by her own answer.

Leon does not want to dwell on the implications of such a statement. 

So he focuses, his hands cradling hers gently as green light emits forth. He can picture her soft, strong hands – how they’re supposed to look. Calloused from wielding an ax and the backwash of magic seeping into the lines, but gentle and kind and loving all the same. He needs to bring that back to reality, so he focuses.

When he’s finished, Camilla looks at him with a tilted head and confusion rampant in her eye. 

“I’ve been reading Elise’s notes,” Leon answers honestly. They were sometimes a pain to navigate, what with the unnecessary doodles of flowers and her retainers lining the page, but that was neither here nor there as he realizes that he no longer needs to hold her hands. He pulls his own away, looking down at the carpet as he remains sitting on his knees just before her.

“Thank you.”

Leon nods, a thousand things sitting on his tongue as the silence drags on. He should say this. He should say that. He should hug her. He should beg for forgiveness.

Distantly, he wonders what Kamui would do. How they might proceed. They were always far more in tune with emotions than Leon ever will be, but he would still try.

“I’m sorry.” 

It’s not eloquent like how he planned it to be. After weeks of writing down what he would say, rehearsing it in the back of his mind as he tended to his duties, all of the words he was supposed to tell her are long forgotten as she sits quietly before him. It hangs heavy in the room. 

“I’m ashamed of how I behaved. I lied to you. I hurt you. I-I wish I could go back in time and stop myself.” He takes in a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in his throat as he wills himself to look up and meet her gaze head on. “I’m sorry, Camilla.”

Silence. He can’t read her expression, and he wonders if Kamui might have been able to. Camilla’s face is blank, but her eyes remain wide and seem almost pensive as he sits there, waiting for her to say something.

To yell at him. 

To scream at him.

To pick him up and throw him outside the library. Anything. 

He does not expect her to lean forward, her now cured hand tilting his head upward. He lets her, only to feel her other hand brush against the side of his neck. He winces at the applied pressure.

He knows how unsightly it looks, a single line of raised skin on his neck surrounded by light purple bruising. From a distance, it’s impossible to notice. With his father’s armor hiding away any physical imperfection, it’s still impossible to notice. Now, as he sits here without the crown banging against his head and a soft tunic fighting away the chill in the air, the fading mark remains bare.

“I wish these would go away,” is all that she says, and Leon sees a sad smile playing at her lips. 

“Camilla, I—”

She shakes her head, stopping him. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way that I did. No matter how angry I was, I should not have put an unkind hand on you.”

The lump in his throat is back. “I’m sorry.”

She removes her hands from his neck, instead dropping down to the floor and cradling him in her arms, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry, too.”

He shakes his head into her shoulder, and the hand at the back of her head stills him. “I shouldn’t have said those things.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have. And I should have kept my composure and my hands to myself.” A pause. “I’m so sorry, Leon.”

He tightens his hold in response, and she does the same.

Clinging to one another like this... truly, the only one missing is Marx, he can’t help but think.

“I made a fool out of myself.” 

“And I hurt you,” he can hear her cringe at her own words, and he feels the need to correct her.

“We hurt each other.”

She doesn’t say anything. Not for a long time. They sit there in silence with the hearth beginning to die out.

Camilla is so kind. 

Even to someone like him.

Only when his knees begin to ache does she pull him away. It’s just enough so she can see his face. “I’d like to know what the letter said, Leon.”

“They were worried about you. They made that readily apparent, even during my visit.” He sighs a shaky sigh. It still hurts to acknowledge the fact, but... “They miss you.”

She ponders his words for a moment, and he can’t help but notice the brief flicker of _something_ in her eye. “And the pin?”

“A gift,” he says easily enough. “They entrusted me to give it to you.”

Another flicker. It’s happiness, he reasons, and Leon has to fight every urge to snuff it out for his own selfish desires – to ease his jealousy and envy.

No. That is what got him here in the first place. He swallows it back.

“I understand how you feel about them, Leon.”

That is what breaks him out of his stupor. His eyes grow wide, a fire kindling in his soul as she gazes at him with sorrowful acceptance.

“Please don’t tell me how I feel.”

“You hate them,” she ignores him, the sorrow in her voice palpable as he grits his teeth.

No. That’s not right.

He doesn’t hate them. That’s why he couldn’t kill them in the marshes. That’s why he stood idly by as they destroyed their home. That’s why he watched as they killed Marx and Elise.

He can still see their smile, their hand in his as they run through the halls of the Northern Fortress. He can still see them laughing as they make snow angels in the courtyard. He can still see them wrapped up in a soft blanket next to him as they fight off sickness together. He can still see them drifting off, head falling to his shoulder as he reads to them aloud. 

That’s why.

“I don’t hate them,” Leon says simply, shaking his head. “I hate what they’ve done. But not them.” This, he was sure. “Never them.”

That is what breaks her composure. It’s tears of relief that cloud her vision, cause her to nod in quietly contained joy. “I’m glad.” She pulls him into her embrace again. “I’m so glad...”

The cruel part of himself reminds him that the mention of Kamui is the one to spark that reaction. Not him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, to distract himself from the gentle pangs of envy beating at his chest.

“I’m sorry, too. Even after everything... how could I do this to you?”

Leon attempts to look at her, but all she does is press his head closer to her shoulder. “Camilla?” 

“When I saw my hands, I—” She stops to compose herself, swallowing thickly. “I thought to myself, ‘this is a cycle. I’m no better.’” 

No. That’s not right, either. So he shakes his head. The words remain unsaid. Their father’s hands are long gone.

He thinks Camilla understands, because she doesn’t push him on the issue.

 

* * *

 

The sun starts rising. The grandfather on the western side of the room dictates it to be so. After more and more apologies and Camilla reels in her emotions, he helps her to her feet and dusts himself off. 

“They want you with them,” he says more to himself, but Camilla hears him anyway. He sees her go eerily still out of the corner of his eye.

He hears that desperation in her voice again. It’s a silent edge, one that would remain unbeknownst to anyone but those closest to her. “Do they?”

He nods, devoid of any and all emotion as he stares at the dying embers of the hearth. “You’re free to go whenever you wish.”

Silence is what greets him.

It hurts, to know what that means. He closes his eyes, distracts himself from the way his heart drops to his stomach by recounting the duties that needed to be tended to today. He doesn’t want to see her expression shift to barely contained elation.

He does not expect to feel a pair of arms circle him again. It causes him to still, to go wide eyed in shock. He starts  _hoping_. 

“Don’t say such things,” is all that she says.

For a moment, Leon tricks himself into thinking that he’s enough. He hugs her, gripping at the back of her nightgown as her words wash over him.

“I will stay with you, Leon.”

His heart is singing. He can feel the wetness pooling in his eyes, but he blinks them away. 

Camilla is kind. So, so kind.

She would even go so far as to lie for his sake. Even now.

To pretend for him, to whisper in his ear that _he_ is the one she favors when that simply isn’t the case. To embrace him and tell him she will stay, even when they both knew full and well that such a promise would be impossible to keep.

It makes him want weep in pure bliss and misery and rapture and **_agony_**.

“Always?” Leon hears himself ask, even when he already knows her answer.

“Always.” Camilla lies with ease.

He holds on a little tighter, and she does the same.

It’s enough. The breath which fills the lungs of a dead woman is enough. The kiss she plants on the top of his head is enough. The empty promises she offers him are enough.

Her heartbeat is _almost_ enough to distract him from the way her head turns to the eastern wall. Toward Hoshido. 

Toward Kamui.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. uh. yeah. this was literally angst/no comfort. well, attempted comfort. leon and camilla tricking themselves into thinking that straight up lying is comfort. i'm sorry my emotionally damaged children.
> 
> 10000 words. 5000 words of deleted content. 15000 total words. needless to say this chapter was a challenge to write. i hate the ending and i hate the middle and i hate the beginning. i guess i should leave a few notes about it to explain my thought process better than this word vomit.
> 
> all of the camilla centric chapters are based on voltaire’s song ‘dead girls.’ in the song, there’s a lyric that i can’t help but associate with camilla and leon: "dead girls don’t walk away from me, sad as it seems." 
> 
> that’s part of the reason why camilla is referred to as "a dead woman" at the beginning of the last chapter and the end of this one. camilla, in leon’s eyes, is dead. she’s a shell of her former self, but leon doesn’t mind because ‘dead girls don’t walk away from (him).”
> 
> they do though, because camilla will leave leon someday. leon knows that. camilla knows that. it’s why he’s so conflicted at the end of this.
> 
> in the end, i guess the only dead girl who won’t walk away from leon is elise.
> 
> hahaha get it?? it’s cuz she’s dead for real!! she literally can’t leave!!! rest in pieces, am i right?


End file.
